Right For Me
by CarrieAnnB
Summary: Set in the year that happened in my story Wrongfully Accused that I passed through. You don't have to read Wrongfully Accused to understand it; at least I don't think so. In JJ's prospective, just like in WA. Rating may change to M.
1. Chapter One

***IMPORTANT NOTICE* **This story MAY be confusing to you if you haven't read my other story _Wrongfully Accused, _where JJ and Morgan embark on an adventure to find Reid's killer and set the record straight when people come to the conclusion that he may have killed himself. This is set in the time frame directly after Morgan beats up Michael and Michael's taken away, and the year that happened before JJ got pregnant and she was celebrating Christmas with Diana Reid. If you're not planning on reading _Wrongfully Accused_, then I hope it won't lose the heart of the story. Thanks for reading! Reviews are my favorite thing- I look forward to them!

* * *

"That was one hell of a ride." Morgan comments, walking me out to Hotch's car, then opening the passenger door for me. I give him a quick thankful smile and slide in. The warmth of the car from the heater previously being on makes my whole body come alive again, because the freezing cold made it feel sleepish.

I let out a sharp sigh that kind of sounds annoyed, as Morgan shuts my door and climbs into the driver's side. For a second he just sits there, resting his hands on the steering wheel, lost in a spiel of thoughts I'm not too sure I want to know. After all we'd been through with trying to solve Reid's murder, I'm surprised I find myself feeling awkward on the other side of the car, afraid to ask him what he's thinking. He lowers his forehead to the steering wheel and lets out a breath.

"It was crazy, I know," I mumble softly. That's not even beginning to explain it, but I'm not sure what else to say. And anyway, that seems pretty accurate.

He snorts, rising his head. "Yeah, I'd say," he glances at me, very sadly, like he's expecting me to react. Right now, I feel completely tired out. I can't even imagine how things are going to be when I get home and Will has bandages covering his wrists and Morgan's flying to his old home to visit his mother. I'm so tired thinking of what's going to happen I wish I could crawl into the backseat and sleep right here. If only tomorrow could wait a little big longer to get here. "Are you feeling okay?" he asks me.

I snap up, my head no longer pressed against the cool window. I begin tracing lines on the foggy windows. "Yeah, I'm okay." I respond halfheartedly.

He twists the keys in the ignition until Hotch's engine roars to life and the heat begins pouring from the vents. My fingers feel numb again from drawing on the windows, so I hold them out in front of the vents. I hear him release a soft chuckle, then begins turning the wheel as the car moves.

"What?" I ask. It's nice to see him not looking so angry anymore.

"Nothing," he says, shaking his head.

I stare at him funny. "What?" I press.

"Just our life," he says almost casually. "It's madness."

I nod instantly. Duh, it is. We'd just spent days tracking down the man who murdered our best friend and colleague. The image of Morgan and me crouching beside the Clevelands' house and peeping into their basement window, then sneaking our way in, kind of makes me giggle, in a twisted sort of way.

He hears my giggling and gives me a funny look. "What's up with you?" he asks.

I can't stop laughing for the life of me. It feels so good to laugh, too. A high absorbs me and I'm laughing so hard I can't catch my breath. Eventually my laughing seems to get louder, but I realize it's only the echo of Morgan's harmonizing with mine. He's laughing, too.

"Why are you laughing?" I ask him, wiping the corners of my eyes with my sweater's sleeve.

"_Me_?" he asks incredulously. I laugh at the tone he uses. "You're the one practically losing it over there."

I nod pleasantly. "Yeah, I am," I decide simply. It feels good not to care. I haven't cared the last few days spent with Morgan, and I'm not caring even now. I unroll the window, stick my head outside and allow the wind to blow through my long hair, and allow the cool air to burn my eyes and lungs.

"Are you kidding me?" he screeches, fighting with the tiny dials on his side of the car. "It's freezing out there!"

I ignore him, because it feels so good to feel something besides hurt and anger. I close my eyes and inhale the cool November air. It smells fresh and a lot like Winter should. "No way," I tell him. "It feels nice."

He finally stops playing with the buttons, and now is just glaring at me like I've lost my mind. Maybe I have. I blame him.

"Try it," I coach, looking at him, smiling. "You'll like it, I promise." It's like I'm trying to get him to try extra hot sauce or mushrooms on his pizza, but I think it's important for him to do so.

He shakes his head. "No thanks." he declines reluctantly. I think he wants to, so I keep pressing it.

"Come on," I coo, sticking my head out further. Thankfully the road we're traveling down is dead; completely lifeless, with the exception of the naked trees and the snow everywhere. "Just try it!"

"No way, I like being warm," he puts his hand in front of the heater vent to make sure hot air is still pooling out.

Without thinking, I grip the wheel and jerk it to the right. He yells something quickly, then slams hard on the brakes once we're on the side of the road. The car stops instantly by the pressure of his boot and when his heart rate goes back to normal, he stares at me, hard.

"What the hell, JJ?" he yells. "Are you nuts?"

I'm still smiling. Again, I blame him for my insanity. Not that I think I'm insane, anyway. These last few days spent solving crime with Morgan taught me something incredibly valuable. It's absolutely important, almost as important as breathing, to not take life for granted. Not the simplest of pleasures, not the slightest chance of a friend. I step out of the car, giving him an innocent smile, and I trample all over the snow. My boots leave foot prints.

I'm twirling and giggling like I'm a little girl again. I'm spinning so fast the world makes my head spin and I lift my arms, widening them, letting the cool air embrace my entire body. Morgan is watching me from the car. I don't expect him to join me, but I appreciate him not yelling at me.

The sound of a car door open convinces me to stop spinning, but when I do, my legs feel shaky and it's hard to get everything steady again. I stumble around like I'm drunk, but I've never seen things clearer. I'm laughing again. Morgan walks over to me and just stares at me.

"Okay, what are you on?" he asks, but he's kind of smiling, so I think he's not mad.

I can't stop smiling. "I'm on nothing," I respond, kicking a pile of snow onto his leg. "I'm just living life."

He narrows his eyes at me, like I'm a difficult painting he's trying to figure out. It's not that hard, Morgan. I scoop up a handful of snow, though my fingers and hands burn angrily at the touch, and mold it into a ball.

"You're not seriously..." he says, lifting his hands tentatively. "Are you?"

I nod right before I chuck the snowball directly at his face.

"Hey!" he yells. For a second, I think he might be angry. He brushes the snow off of his cheek with his hands, then looks down at himself, inspecting for any more snow. I bite hard on my bottom lip, waiting.

He leans down, makes his own snowball then throws it at me. I laugh and scream automatically, and then attempt to duck, even though I've already been hit. He's laughing too.

"You've lost it, you know that?" he says to me.

I don't dare correct him. Why bother discussing reasons when we're just having fun? "Have you ever noticed how beautiful snow really is?" I ask.

Momentarily, he's giving me a strange look.

"Just think about it." I say, flicking a piece of snow off of my fingertip.

He looks up, faces the tiny snowflakes that are barely visible, until one land perfectly on the tip of his nose. "It's beautiful," he says. I think he means it. "It is."

I smile proudly, like I created it. I spin around again, then grip his arm. "Scream with me."

"What?" he laughs.

"Scream with me," I repeat, squeezing his wrist harder in my hand. I'm not holding his hand, because I'm afraid to nick the scraps and bruises he has on his knuckles from punching Michael. He's still staring at me funny.

"Ready?" I ask. He doesn't respond. "One,"

The corners of his lips twitch. "Two," he chimes in.

I suck in a breath and face the sky. "Three!" and we scream. So hard, it echoes throughout the night sky, and it feels like my throat is vibrating, but it feels so good.

* * *

"Thanks for the ride home," I say to him, as soon as he reels Hotch's car into my driveway. He turns off the car so I don't get lost in a sea of fumes on my way in. It's appreciated.

"Thanks for the numb body," he responds with a hearty smirk. I glare at him, but I know we're only playing, so it's all in good fun.

I step out of the car. I think it's gone down in degrees since we left the side of the road. I look at my dark, empty house. I really have no idea where Will is now that I think about it. I'm sure he's been discharged from the hospital since I visited, but I'm not too sure on how severe his injuries were. I'm not even sure who was staying with Henry when he was admitted.

"You want me to walk you inside?" Morgan asks, considering it. After the trouble we've had with losing Reid, I think his paranoia has kicked in overdrive.

"Morgan, it's right there, I'll be fine." I shut the car door and wave at him. I turn and walk up my driveway, being super-careful not to slip on a patch of ice on my way inside. Unfortunately, I do. I manage to catch myself, sort of, but I still wind up falling down. It only takes him seconds to rush to my side, but when I see him, he's trying very hard not to laugh.

"I'm okay," I say, slapping his helpful hands away.

"No, really, are you alright?" now he's actually laughing. Hard. "You went down!"

I get steady on my feet and roll my eyes at him. "Thanks, Morgan, you're so helpful." I mumble, walking hunched over to my porch.

When I look behind me, he's still standing there, smirking wildly. "Don't you have a stolen car to return?" I say to him.

He's still grinning. "Thanks, JJ," he says to me. His cocky attitude seems to wither a little, and he seems sincere about it. "I mean it."

I'm not sure what he's thanking me for, but I decide not to ask. "You're welcome." I say, smiling. And I'm still smiling, until I unlock my door and step inside the comfort of my warm home.

* * *

I heave a heavy, exasperated sigh that seems to get all of my emotions out at once, and I shut the door before the cold can seep into my house any more than it already has. When I turn around, I see a sink stacked high of dirty dishes and a clutter of bills and magazines on the counter. I sigh at the mess. Nothing I can worry about tonight. I walk down the dark hallway, fumble around to find the light switch, curse at myself for not knowing where the damn light switch is even after all of this time, and then turn it on.

I feel my way to Henry's room, and creep the door open. I peek in long enough to see his shape hidden underneath the covers, looking tired and happy. I smile at the sight of my son. I'm reminding myself to give him plenty of hugs and kisses come morning time, because in the spirit of me not taking things for granted, he's first on the list.

I shut his door as quietly as possible, then tiptoe my way to my bedroom, which is hard to do in my boots. I try not to make too much noise, but I finally make it to my room, and I sigh thankfully. Will shifts at the mere sound of me walking on the carpet.

He moves and makes groaning noises until he sits up and squints at me. I can see his eyes trying to make sense of my shape through the hallway light. "JJ?" he asks, with that raspy morning voice.

"Yeah, it's me," I whisper. "How are you feeling?"

He combs back his hair with his fingers and then rubs the white bandage concealing his wrists with his thumb. "Like I've just been cut like a turkey on Thanksgiving," he snarls. "How about you?"

I slide off my boots quickly, then strip down to my underwear, rummaging through my closet so I can slide on comfortable clothing. Just the feel of my cotton choices when my fingers touch them in my closet makes my body feel more relaxed. "Like I was tied to a bumper, dragged seventy miles on a dirt road." I say, equally as haughty. I'm really, really exhausted.

I pick out a satin camisole from my closet, slide the thin straps off of the hanger with ease and position it so I can slide it on. Once I have it on, I catch Will's face in the vanity mirror. I give him a strange look through it. He catches it, but just raises his eyebrows expectantly.

"Are you feeling okay?" I ask him.

"Uh-huh," he replies dully, like his mind is elsewhere, and steps out of his bed. I'm still searching for cotton pajama bottoms. Where the hell did those things run off to? I feel arms wrap around my waist and pull me into him without consent. I lay my head back on his shoulder.

"I missed you," he mumbles breathlessly into my hair, kissing my shoulder. "You've been so distracted lately."

I try not to take offense. I know he doesn't mean it that way. But I _did _just lost one of my closest friends. A little compassion would be immensely appreciated; but like I said, I don't take offense.

"I know," I say instead. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be," he whispers seductively, his lips traveling to my collarbone, then the spot on my neck that he knows drives me crazy every time. But tonight, my knees don't tremble at the feeling of his lips; in fact, I don't feel much of anything. Maybe I'm more tired than I thought.

I wrap my arms around his that are wrapped around me, wanting to feel him closer to me, because it feels nice to have someone holding me compassionately. He's mumbling inaudible things to me in my ear, trying to set the mood, but when I look down and see the bandages on his wrists, I shudder.

He takes this as a good sign apparently, because he chuckles in my ear and flicks my lobe with the tip of his tongue. Meanwhile, I'm kind of freaked. I'm trying not to be. I'm desperately trying to think of sexy thoughts that'll get me turned on, but all I see are wrists shielded with a cover-up that is hiding scars that resemble Reid's all too closely.

I touch the bandage; the material feels rough on my skin. I imagine how his scars will feel on my skin. Now I feel kind of sick. It's hard to get his arms off of me, because he's squeezing me so tight, but I manage to break free.

He groans disapprovingly. But not one to give up, he follows me to the side of the bed and holds me again. "Playing hard to get?" he guesses.

I try to smile. "I'm really tired," I say. At least it's not a lie. Not entirely, anyway.

He frowns and lets go of me. "Babe," his eyes are pleading with me. "We haven't in so long. I mean, you don't miss me?"

I hold his hands, but when I feel his bandages again, I instinctively let go. "Of course I do," I hope he can see the desperation in my eyes. How much I can't do this right now. "I just really need one good night of sleep, without any interruptions."

He looks down. "It's been so hard being patient with you," he mumbles. I wish I hadn't heard that. I can't seem to bring the frown on my face up at all, no matter how hard I try. Even a fake-smile still feels like a huge frown. "I couldn't be with you while you were grieving over Reid, and I couldn't be with you while you were solving the case," he takes my hands in his. I try hard not to pull away. "I need to be with you now."

"Does it have to be _right now_?" I plead. I'm pleading with my eyes. I'm trying not to feel guilty. I'm trying to feel whole, happy and sane like I had earlier in the snow with Morgan.

He cocks his head to the side and smirks. "Kind of, yeah." he's laughing, but I don't find this funny at all.

I feel dirty, but I give in. I lay down on the bed, in my silk camisole and underwear, like I'm a plaything. He seems to be okay with my unenthusiasm, because he lays on top of me and begins tousling with my hair, kissing my chest, rubbing my arm.

I lay there, emotionless and still, like I'm being taken advantage of. I feel disgusting, for a reason I can't make sense of.

When Will is done playing with me, he rolls over to his side of the bed, and lets out a pleased sigh. He turns over and faces the wall. "I feel better now." he comments with a short laugh, before I hear his breathing settle to a steady pace. I know he's sleeping.

I lay there, in the dark, the trees outside of our window making funny shapes on the ceiling. I think about how content I felt earlier, and how distant and far away I feel now. It scares me. I turn and face the wall, holding the covers close to my chin, and force myself to rid my thoughts of anything that resembles knives, scars or bandages. I think of the snow falling, and my feet being buried in it, and Morgan and I screaming at the top of our lungs. I fall asleep to that thought, and that thought only.


	2. Chapter Two

I'd taken my time getting dressed this morning. I was already predicting a lecture coming from Hotch the minute I walked through the doors, followed by a million and one questions from every one in the team, which then would have to follow with a step-by-step instruction of what occurred. I just wasn't feeling up to that today. So I took a little extra time hitting Snooze on my alarm clock, and took longer sipping my orange juice and picking at the crust on my toast. Now I'm sitting on a stool at the counter, my elbows propped up, reading the headlines in the newspaper.

I hear fumbling down the hall, but I'm almost one-hundred percent positive it's too early to be Henry. Soon Will shuffles his slippers into the kitchen, his bathrobe untied and hanging loosely over his pajamas. His hair's not combed and his eyes look tired and very small. I almost choke on my OJ at the sight of him, because it's kind of funny seeing him this way. A little bit of my orange juice spits back up at my attempt not to giggle, and Will shoots me a strange look.

"What's up with you?" he asks, pouring coffee into a glass mug. I don't have time to answer him before he's onto asking me the next thing. "Anything good in the paper?" He pulls a stool closer to mine and sits so close to me I can smell the strong coffee lingering off of his breath. It sort of wakes me up, like I'm digesting it through him.

"Nothing much," I say flatly, placing the paper down. "How are you feeling?" My eyes quickly glance to his bandages, but immediately back to his face.

He shakes his head as to say so-so. He picks up the paper and carelessly begins thumbing through it. I don't mind; I was finished anyways. I take my glass, which is still half-full, and dump the contents down the drain in the sink. As much as I enjoyed my quiet morning, something tells me it's not going to be as peaceful as it was five minutes ago.

Any minute I was expecting twenty questions. "So, when are you going to tell me what happened while you guys were out fighting crime?" and there it is. I saw that coming.

But right now, I don't feel like walking him through it. I don't feel like reliving it, because it wasn't a joyful experience, and anyways, it's a really long story, in which I don't have time for. I fasten the tie on my robe quickly and run my fingers through my hair.

"I really should shower." I announce rapidly, walking super-fast to the bathroom. I don't have enough time to shut the door before he's pushing it open. Dammit.

"Running from me?" he laughs, his mug still in his hand. The way he's standing there in his striped pajama bottoms and blue robe and slippers, sipping coffee, holding the paper with his opposite hand, kind of reminds me of my dad. Which kind of freaks me out.

"No," I say deadpanned. "Honestly, I'm not. I'm just going to be late for work."

"You haven't been to work in ages," he tells me.

"I know," I say, turning the faucet in the tub so the water has enough time to get warm. I put my fingers underneath to test it, and sure enough, the water is steaming hot. It feels so nice just imagining hot water pouring all over me. I can't even recall the last time I took a thorough shower. It's kind of grossing me out thinking about it. "Which is why I have to hurry. Hotch'll kill me."

He grabs my hand. "He'll understand," he says, inching toward me, putting his bedroom eyes on. "You just lost Reid." Like he has to tell me.

I back away from him, until his hand slips away from mine. "So you're saying I should use Reid's death as an excuse to avoid work so we can have sex all day?" I snap. I can't explain this anger bubbling up inside of me, but quickly it's coming to the surface and it feels like any minute I might boil over.

"No," his face softens and he instantly frowns, because he knows he's upset me, but doesn't know how. "I never suggested that. You _know_ I wouldn't suggest that."

I sigh. I'm tired and I need to shower. That's all I can focus on right now. I rub my forehead to soothe the headache I feel coming on. "Look, let's not argue," I say.

"Yeah, let's not." he adds.

"I need to get to work, that's all I know," I'm trying to sound kinder, but it's very difficult, and I can't understand why. I see his covered wrists and look away; at the soap dish, at my almost-empty shampoo bottle, at the towel hanging on the towel rack. Anything but those bandages concealing his wounds.

"Okay," he says quietly. We stand in complete silence. I keep staring at the towel rack. He's looking at the toilet paper rack. Nobody's talking, and it sounds like no one's even breathing.

"I should probably get in then..." I say, my voice trailing off suggestively.

He stares at me oddly for a split second, then makes a face, like he's succumbing to something. "Oh, you want me to leave?" he asks.

I don't answer.

"_Oh._" he backs away slowly, grips the door handle, twists it gently and closes the door until it clicks. I keep staring at the towel rack, feeling prickliness at the corners of my eyes like I'm going to cry. I'm so sick of crying, so I undress and keep the clothes I just took off in a neat pile in the corner, and walk directly under the scalding hot water.

* * *

The radio station is playing some of my favorite songs today. That I appreciate. It's like it knows what shitty days I've been having lately. I flick the dial all the way to the left until the sound in my speakers fades out and the radio's turned off. I find a parking space located for Employees Only in the parking lot and unbuckle. I decide to get rid of all of the old trash in my car, because it's starting to pile up way too quickly. I'm surprised to find things I hardly remember ever using or eating. I toss old fast food restaurant napkins and soda cups into a trash bin on my way inside, next to the ash tray, and open the door, bracing myself for a quick reaction to my appearance.

Sure enough, here comes Garcia, clunking her high-heeled way over to me. I look around frantically, but there's no where to hide. Instead, I smile brightly and open my arms wide to receive her choking embrace.

"I missed you!" she cries into my shoulder. I pat her back awkwardly. "Are you alright? Morgan told me about Will," her face darkens. "And his mom."

His mom! I completely have to ask about her the second I see him. Unless he's already left for Chicago. "Has Morgan left to visit her?" I ask.

She sighs. "Not yet, no," she's pouting her red lipstick lips into a frown. "It's hard on him, you know? After the same thing happened to Reid."

"Yeah, I know." I say kind of rudely. I mean, come on.

She notices my unkind tone and twitches funny, like she feels like she severely offended me. It doesn't take her long to recover her confidence, though, because she links her arm in mine and starts forcing me further into the BAU.

"We've all been freaked since you and Morgan decided to go parading all around on your own on this little top-secret mission without hardly any help," she says, and I can't tell if she's scolding me or not, but then she narrows her eyes at me and smirks. "Well, I helped a little. You guys _did_ ask for the Clevelands address and stuff."

I take her hands in mine and squeeze them gratefully. "Yes, you did." I encourage her, fully giving credit where credit is due. That, and maybe she'll leave things at that.

"Now," she says, quick-witted again. "Tell me about your little adventure. Leave nothing out!"

I was dreading this. First off, where do I even begin? Secondly, do I even want to? Before I can even process anything, Garcia's tightening her grip on my hands excitedly.

"I heard you guys jacked Hotch's car," she looks extremely pleased with this; it makes me laugh. "Was it Morgan's idea or yours? I hope it was Morgan's," she throws her head back and sighs. "God, he's so sexy. Love that man."

I smile and nod. Yeah, he kind of is. I never really thought about it. "Yeah," I nod. She furrows her eyebrows at me funny.

"Yeah, what?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Yeah, it was his idea." I correct myself. That's not what I initially meant, but aw hell.

"Ugh, sucha badass!" she gloats. I find myself laughing giddily at this along with her. Prentiss sneaks up behind Garcia and stands by her side.

"Oh, please," she rolls her eyes, grinning. "I'm so tired of everyone drooling over Morgan."

I kind of was too. You know, before. Before I saw a different side of him. Before I knew that he was more than muscle and toned abs, he's actually a genuinely good guy. I don't say this, though. Strangely, I don't want to give women any more reason to love him.

Instead, I nod along with Prentiss' statement. Garcia rolls her eyes. "Oh, whatever," she flips a strand of bright red curled hair over her shoulder. "Now, get to the deets. Like, now."

Prentiss sighs, looks down and then gives me a sympathetic glance. "Uh, Garcia, how 'bout we let her relax a little first, huh?" I'm so thankful for Prentiss right now I want to squeeze her.

Garcia looks saddened by this. "Aw, no, she just got back," she whines. "I just want to see how things went."

"And you will," Prentiss insists convincingly. I give her a smile when she looks my way, and she gives me an understanding one back. "After she gets settled in." The way Prentiss has her arm around her, she's practically shoving her way back to her office, without being an ass about it. Garcia takes the hint thankfully, and drags her feet disappointingly to her office. Once she's out of earshot, Prentiss rushes up to me and hugs me tightly.

"I missed you!" she exclaims, sounding almost identical to Garcia.

"I missed you too," I say sincerely. "I missed all of you. How'd you guys survive without work?" Strauss had given us a week off because of Reid's death, and I'm honestly very curious how everyone, namely Hotch, survived without any cases to deal with. Morgan and I were at least burdened with Reid's.

Prentiss rolls her eyes. "Don't remind me," she groans, as she starts leading me to the middle of the BAU. "It's kind of funny to think how little of lives we have outside of this job. It's sad, actually." the words she says are depressing, but she's saying them like it's just any observation; like she's saying it's strange how the leaves change color or how President Bush managed to get re-elected.

She stops right in front of the little section where she and Morgan work. It's also where Reid used to work as well, but now his tiny office space is filled with small flower bouquets. It's a sweet touch, and it brightens up the dull place. It's sad to me that it takes a death of an employee to get us to decorate this place a little more cheerier.

"I'm not going to boggle you down with questions right off the bat," she informs me. I sigh a breath of relief. "However, I do want to know what happened. You know, you and Morgan could have asked us for our help; you didn't have to go at it alone."

I smile weakly. "We wanted to." I insist.

She sighs, and gives me a faint smile. I don't think she understands, but she pats my arm reassuringly, to let me know that that's enough to leave it alone for now. Behind her shoulder, Morgan walks down the stairs, clutching an FBI mug, then walking to the area so he can refill his cup. My eyes follow him the whole way, until Prentiss notices and turns around.

Awkwardly, I bring my hand to the back of my neck and scratch. "Did you notice we got new coffee makers?" I ask nervously.

Prentiss stares at Morgan for a while, then turns back to me, grinning suspiciously. "We have?" she asks, sounding curious, although I know it's just her being fake.

I play along, like I've still got a chance of pulling this off. "Yeah," I say, watching the coffee makers. "I think they're new."

"Huh," Prentiss fake-observes. "You know what I think?"

"Huh?" I ask, sounding fake-curious as well.

"You should stop eye-raping the coffee makers and take a look at Morgan's fine ass." she says to me. I'm so taken back by this I just find myself laughing. She laughs along with me.

"I'm with Will," I remind her when I stop laughing.

"It doesn't hurt to look," she shrugs. She looks for herself. "Suit yourself."

The minute she walks away from me, I allow my eyes to "eye-rape" his butt casually. And besides, it's not really _looking_; technically I'm checking out the new coffee makers, and it just so happens he's standing there, refilling his cup, directly in front of the coffee maker. So really, it isn't my fault that naturally my eyes go to his body. And his butt is directly where the coffee maker should be, so that's exactly why my eyes instantly went to that direction. After convincing myself of this, I feel less guilty. Until Hotch and Rossi begin approaching me, now I just feel nervous.

"Hotch, about your car-" I try to sputter out the second he comes up to me, but he lifts his hand to shut me up. I do.

"Don't worry about it." he tells me. His voice is low and serious as always, but he doesn't sound angry, so my shoulders lose the tension. "Are you two alright? Morgan says you are, but I wanted to make sure."

Morgan comes beside me now, holding a mug full of freshly poured coffee. The scent comes out in waves steaming from the top, and it blows directly towards me, sending whiffs of delicious French Vanilla my way. I inhale it and exhale with pleasure.

"I told you, she's alright," Morgan says, taking a small sip. He slurps it, swallows it, then smirks at us. "You know, besides the gigantic bruise she'll have on her butt from falling on her driveway."

I slap his arm. "Shut up," I say. He tries to avoid my slap, but it doesn't really matter, because it's girly and half-assed and couldn't hurt a fly.

Rossi looks amused. "I'm sure Morgan would like to see that," he chimes in. I roll my eyes.

"Absolutely," Morgan smiles. "If she needs me to inspect it."

I roll my eyes again, trying to fight a smirk. "You're gross." I say.

"As long as your both alright," Hotch says.

Rossi leans against what used to be Reid's corner, and starts fiddling with the gold watch on his wrist. "So what happened, anyway? You caught the guy?" Rossi asks.

Morgan nods, swallowing a mouthful. "Yeah, we caught him." he says. And just like that, his good mood seems to fade.

"So, what happened?" Rossi pushes. I look at Morgan. He looks at me.

"We caught him," Morgan says.

"I've established that," Rossi chuckles. "But what else? I mean, were you guys in any danger?"

"No," Morgan shakes his head. Kind of a lie, but I don't fight him on it. Then, without saying another word, Morgan walks away, ck to the coffee counter. I envy him. I could really use a cup. It takes me a second to realize that Hotch too has walked off, back up to his office. Now it's just me and Rossi, and he's staring at me inquisitively.

"What?" I finally ask him, his dark eyes feeling like they're reading my thoughts.

"You're not going to tell me?" he asks.

Morgan leans against the counter across the room casually; one hand behind his back on the counter, the other sipping his coffee like it's a weekend morning and he's loving every minute of it. I'm watching him, pleading with my eyes for his help. He catches my eyes and telepathically, we exchange words. _Need help? _He asks me with his eyes.

I glance at Rossi, only hearing a little bit of what he's saying to me.

"-it's not like I don't think you two can handle yourselves, it's just not wise to go out there alone," he says, mid-lecture. I nod at him, smile like I understand, then shoot Morgan another telepathic glance.

_Yes. Damsel in distress over here. _I say with my eyes in response. At least that's what I was trying to say. Morgan seems to get it though, because he puts the coffee mug on the counter, and leaves it there as he strolls his way over to me.

He grips my arm and starts pulling me in the opposite direction. "Yeah, Rossi, trying to talk her ear off?" this shuts Rossi up. Now he's staring at Morgan, confused. "Besides, it's lunchtime," he holds my arm harder as he starts leading me back to the door I just walked into not too long ago. "Come on, I'm buying."

It's not like I can decline, because I asked him to help me. I follow him, and give Rossi a smile as we're exiting. I feel kind of bad, but at the same time, I'm really hungry.

The air is bone-chilling cold still, and I hug my arms and shiver as he walks me to his car. "Are we really going somewhere to eat?" I manage to ask, even with my teeth chattering and all. The cold leather on the seats only makes me freeze even more when I slide inside, but Morgan pushes down the button that makes the seats get warm, so I start to feel a litte bit better.

"No," he says, starting the car. The car purrs heartily and it whisks us out of the parking lot with ease. "We're going to pick up a turkey."

"For what?" I ask. I pull down the visor and check my reflection. I don't look bad considering I've been running on E the last few days, but if it had been any other day, people would probably assume I'm coming down with something. I flip the visor back up, because I'm sick of seeing me that way.

"_For what_?" he asks incredulously. I nod, clueless.

He sighs. "For Thanksgiving," he catches my shocked look, then adds, "It's tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" I repeat.

He nods. "I'm going to fly in to Chicago tonight, eat some turkey with my mom," he switches from looking at me to the road every few seconds. "You know, since what happened."

"That's sweet of you," I say honestly. "I bet she'll like that."

He switches the knob and turns the heat up on high. I smile at him, to say thank-you. He smiles back. "You know, I was thinking," he makes a turn, as his voice trails off. I raise my eyebrows. "If we don't wind up with a case today, and I doubt we will, because Strauss told Hotch to take it easy on us-"

"She did?" I ask. I can't believe that. Mean ole Strauss actually wants us to relax? Wow.

"Yeah, I know, strange." he smiles for a second, then gets right back to what he was trying to say before. I turn in my seat and listen closely. "But anyway, I was thinking, if it's cool with Will and all, that you'll come with me."

I pause. For too long, apparently.

"You don't have to. I just thought because I told my mom all about you helping me with solving Reid's murder, and she really wanted to thank you, I guess."

I still don't know what to say. "Won't I just get in the way?" I ask.

"No way, my mom invited you," he pauses, looks at me, then shrugs. "Whatever you want to do. It's up to you."

"I'd have to ask Will..."

"Then ask him." he turns into the Deli's parking lot, shuts the car off and smiles at me. "Let's go get a turkey."


	3. Chapter Three

**Author's note: **Phew! I kept going and going with this chapter. Ha! :)

* * *

The Deli's smell is kind of making me queasy, but I'm not sure if it's the orange juice and toast I had for breakfast this morning. I think I piled on way too much butter. Every time I breathe in inside this place, I feel something quiver in the bottom of my throat, and I begin to panic that I might throw up.

Heat flushes to my face just when Morgan looks my way. He furrows his eyebrows at me for a second, then hesitates to ask me something, and instead says, "I don't know if they'll be any turkey available this late in the game."

I put my hand on my stomach, but even that little movement makes my whole body have a strange reaction, and I feel a fever coming on, just as my heart rate picks up in speed. _You're not going to puke, you're not going to puke. _All the while, my body is telling me otherwise. I touch Morgan's arm, whose ahead of me, pushing past the crowd of people.

He looks over his shoulder, down at little ole me, trying to keep it together. "Morgan, I have to use the bathroom," I barely sputter out. I say it so quietly because I feel even swallowing my saliva right now is risky. "Can you point it out to me?"

He scans the room with his eyes for longer than I wanted, while I'm still standing here, touching my sweaty forehead, trying to keep my mind off of it by counting how many hams are laying underneath a lamp across the room. The smell of ham seems to make it's way over to me, and my queasiness intensifies.

"There." he finally says, with the helpful pointing of his index finger. Before any more words are spoken, I squeeze past him, determined, making everybody look my way and scoff, like I'm trying to cut in line. I make a beeline for the restrooms, push the women's door open so fast I nearly knock down a girl who was trying to exit, and dart into the only stall that the door is open.

For a second, I think I might be okay. I lean my head against the cold wall and try to catch my breath. One sharp inhale and here it is. In a flash, I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and heave out my entire day's diet. I'm throwing up so violently, my throat aches. Towards the end, it turns into dry heaves. I eventually can breathe in without having to worry, and I lean my back against the wall, sighing and wiping the tears that had fallen during the vomiting act.

I can hear people whispering outside of my stall. _Oh God, do you think she has that new stomach flu? I hope I don't catch it._ A faucet turns on and someone washes their hands. _Maybe she's one of those bulimic girls. I hear they do that everywhere they go, even public places. _I try not to get annoyed. I mean, I've got bigger issues right now. _Maybe she's drunk. I hear those are running around, too. _The other one chuckles and they exit. Meanwhile, I get the courage to rise steady on my feet, and just to be safe, I inhale a big deep breath. I exhale. Inhale again. Exhale. Nothing comes up, so I unlock the stall and wash my face in the sink, and then gargle water to get the unpleasant taste from my mouth.

I leave the bathroom and make my way to the line, where Morgan is asking the guy about the turkeys they still have available. I'm trying to block out the smell of fresh meat and instead only focus on little things, like the menus on the walls, or the flowers on the tables, or a pair of shoes I like when someone walks by, or how intently Morgan's staring at the turkey choices like it's a matter of life or death. Guess he really wants it to be special for his mom.

"There you are," Morgan smiles to me, like he's really happy to see me. I give him a weak smile and focus my eyes on whatever he's looking at.

"What are we looking at?" I ask, trying not to lean too closely. I _did_ just throw up.

"Turkey," he says simply. He pauses, looks at the guy behind the counter and points to the second turkey. "That one. I'll take that one." The guy begins preparing and wrapping the turkey up. Morgan turns to me.

"Were you okay in there?" he asks kind of quietly, like he's embarrassed to speak of it.

I shrug and shove back my hair, which feels wet and sweaty in my hands. I ignore how terrible I look right now; I really don't care. "Yeah, I'm fine." I say casually.

"You just seemed like you felt sick before you went in there."

I shrug again. "I'm fine." I lie.

He stares at me, long and hard, and I have to look away, because I feel like if he meets my eyes, he'll know what happened. _Please look away. _Eventually he does, but only when the guy returns with the turkey, all wrapped protectively.

"Thanks, man," Morgan says, as the guy tells us his total. Morgan pulls out the cash, puts it on the counter and grabs the turkey, then looks at me as we step out of line. "Anything you want while we're here?"

I shake my head. I don't have a turkey, because Thanksgiving flew up on me, and I really should buy one, but I'm so focused on getting the hell out of here and getting away from the smell that I, instead, shake my head no.

He doesn't ask twice. We start walking back to the car, and I'm thankful for the cold weather; the wind makes my feverish face feel cooler. We slide into the car, and I'm sad to feel how warm it is. My cheek's feel hot again.

"So, did you think about what you're going to do?" he asks me, reaching forward and buckling himself. I stare straight ahead.

"About...?" I ask.

"About going to Chicago with me and seeing my mom." he starts the car and immediately goes to the button that turns on the heat. I reach out and grab his hand to stop him. I don't mean it, but it's like my thoughts stepped out and took control for themselves. He stares at me, but doesn't pull his hand away. I find comfort in his hand holding mine. I feel safe. I pull away.

"No heat," I say.

He looks at me like I'm something so hard to put together. "What?" he reaches forward and pinches the material on my coat. "You look like you're freezing. Your cheeks are red." he reaches forward for the dial again, but I stop him. Again.

"No, I'm actually pretty warm," I say. I shake my head almost sadly. "No heat."

He pulls his hand away. "Alright, no heat." he decides.

All I can do is nod. "Thank you." I shift in my seat and watch the cars, trees and stores we pass by as we're driving down the street. "About your plans to go to Chicago," I turn and look his way. "I'll let you know after work."

He smiles a cocky little grin. "So that's not a no then." he decides.

I pause, like it's some kind of trick. Is it? "Yes," I say. "It's not a no."

He turns the wheel as we head down a road I'm not familiar taking to the BAU. He must sense my confusion, because he says, "We're stopping by my place to drop off the turkey," he tells me. "People get pretty crazy around the Holiday season, and I don't want anyone stealing my turkey from my car."

"Like you stole Hotch's car?" I ask, smiling innocently.

He doesn't look at me, but he's smiling. "Exactly."

* * *

His house is small. Much smaller than I ever imagined. Not that I ever actually sat around imagining what his house looked like, but if I had, it wouldn't have been like this. He has a small garage and another car parked in the driveway. There's a huge window in the front and smaller windows on the higher level. I step outside and I feel his hand slip into mine. I'm so surprised I practically flinch.

"Be careful," he tells me, angling us specifically over patches of thick ice. "I don't want you to fall."

I scoff. "Yeah, I know. Thanks." I say sarcastically, but when he doesn't respond or even make a face, I realize he's not teasing me about last night; rather, he's actually concerned. It takes us about two minutes to get inside his house, but we avoided the icy disaster that's a death hazard for him without us falling on our butts.

"This is my home," he announces, opening the door wide and stepping aside so I can go in first. The whole house is dark, with the blinds drawn and the lights turned off, but I feel something nudging at my feet, and when I lean down, I can feel that it's a dog. I begin stroking the dog's ears. Morgan comes behind me and flicks on a switch, and the whole living area ignites with light.

It's really something. The living room itself isn't much to brag about, with white leather couches and a big-screen TV, and your average coffee table. But what's really eye-catching is the huge Christmas tree that's decked to the nines in the middle of the house, just drawing your eyes to it, captivating you. I marvel it with awe.

"Wow, that's amazing," I say, still petting the dog's head. He thanks me with a few licks on my hand. "Did you decorate that yourself?"

He steps inside and shuts the door. "Yeah," he says, like it's no big deal. "I did it the other day."

"By yourself?" I ask.

He nods. "Yeah, I do it every year." he walks inside the living room and begins talking about the other things he has, like the special channels his TV gets, or the great deal he got on the couches, but all I can think about is the tree. I can just see Morgan, year after year, filling the tree with beautiful decorations, by himself, with no wife or girlfriend or children to share it with. Then I picture Christmas morning, sipping Eggnog by himself, watching Christmas specials on TV. _By himself._

I can't help but ask. "Do you ever have any company on Christmas?" I ask him.

He looks taken by surprise with it, but answers so nonchalantly. "Not really," he looks down at first. "Everybody's doing things with their family. No big deal. Mine are in Chicago."

"Why don't you fly in to see them?" I ask.

"Because what if you guys need me?"

"We usually have off on the Holidays," I say.

He gives me a look that's hard to identify, but I get the feeling he wants me to shut up. "Do you want something to drink?" he says, carrying the turkey into the kitchen. "I've got soda, orange juice, milk and..." he leans down into the fridge and pulls something out, stares at it, then twists the cap and dumps it down the drain. "Never mind, milk's expired."

"I'm alright," I say. Curiously, I begin to wander around his place. He doesn't say anything or invite me to join him in the kitchen, so I stay right where I am. There's a fireplace in his living room, that has about three logs in it right now, but they look fresh. There's framed photographs on the mantle, and one by one, I look at each one carefully. First one is of him and, what I assume, his two sisters, when they were in their early teens, I'd say. Their crouching down in a backyard, and Morgan's holding a football. The second one is of him and his whole family together, with Morgan in the middle, sitting at a table above a birthday cake, with a big Happy Birthday banner hanging above his head. There's a woman holding onto his shoulders above him, and a man standing beside the woman with his arm around her. I assume these are his parents. Two younger girls are sitting on each side of him. There are people in the back, who are talking with other people, but the main picture is of Morgan and his family. The next one is of Morgan and an older man alone. I'd say Morgan is about seven or eight here. I'm guessing the man is his father. Morgan's smiling cheerfully, and the man couldn't look prouder. Before I can see the last one, Morgan stands beside me, scaring me.

"Jeez, was I supposed to announce myself?" he laughs, referring to my jumping and squealing when he appeared by my side very quietly.

"Yes, could you?" I say, trying to catch my breath.

"I'm sorry," he puffs out his bottom lip like he's pouting apologetically. I can't help but smile. Once he knows he's won my forgiveness, he claps his hands and looks around his house. "The turkey's put away. I guess we can head out if you're ready."

"I'm ready," I say. He starts walking to the door. But I'm not ready. In fact, I'd rather be here than at work. And not just that, but I'm starting to feel sick again. "Wait,"

He stops at the door.

"Can I use your bathroom?"

He nods. "Yep," using his hands, he directs me to the bathroom. "Down the hall, turn left, the only door opened. You'll see it."

I smile. "Thank you." I start walking down the hall and I turn left, and the door is opened, just like he said. I can hear him cooing to his dog from the bathroom, until I close the door, then it sounds very muffled.

"You're such a good boy," he's saying. I'm smiling, because it sounds so cute. Even when you're trying to pee. "Who's a good boy? You are."

I wash my hands, wipe my hands on a towel hanging up and try my hardest to make myself look at least decent-looking today. When I look at myself right now, I can't recognize myself. I'm surprised Morgan hasn't said anything. I step out of the bathroom, and I can still hear Morgan talking to his dog. Since he's preoccupied, I find myself guiltily making my way toward his bedroom. The bathroom is not the only room with a door open.

I step inside very carefully, like I'm going to break something or set off alarms. His bedroom is what I'd expected of him, at least. The room isn't overly-guyish, but it's definitely not designed by a woman. Bland bedding set, bland color walls, bland carpet even. The only thing remotely stylish is the big-screen TV hanging on the wall. I touch the soft wood on his dresser and feel very dirty about sneaking in like this, because it's wrong and an invasion of privacy. But I find myself wanting to know more about him. I don't open any drawers, because that's where I draw the line.

I feel like I'm going to get sick again. It comes on so fast it hardly gives me time to prepare. Scared I might vomit in his room, I dart into the bathroom, without closing the door, and lower myself to the toilet. My quick running sets my stomach in overdrive, and soon I'm back to throwing up, even though I'm ninety-nine percent sure there's nothing left to bring up.

Morgan must have heard me puking right away, because he's standing beside me within seconds. "JJ, are you alright?" he asks, panicking. "Should I call Will?"

I can barely talk between puking sessions, so I raise my hand up impatiently. He grabs my hair and collects it into a stiff pile, until I'm done. I yank off some toilet paper, wipe my mouth and he lets go of my hair. "I think I'm sick," I say, standing up. My legs feel shaky and sweat is pooling down my face again. "I don't think I can go back to work."

He's frowning at me sympathetically. "Did you get sick at the Deli?" he asks me.

"Yeah," I nod. I put the lid down on the toilet and sit down.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he crouches down to my height so he can talk to me face-to-face. Which actually seems pretty ridiculous, because who wants to get this close to someone who just puked their guts out? This makes me insecure, so I cover my mouth with my hand.

"Um," I look up at the sink; at the sparkling blue mouthwash sitting on it. "Can I use some of that?"

He looks at it, then untwists the cap, pours the mouthwash into the cap and hands it to me. I pour it into my mouth fast, and soon the strong peppermint is all I can taste. It's so strong it's burning, but not having to taste my breakfast for the third time is actually helping to settle my stomach.

I gargle then spit it in the sink. "Thanks." I say, handing the cap back to him. He places it down carelessly, then crouches down again.

"Are you sure nothing else is bothering you?" he's asking me in this super-sweet voice that's kind of strange to hear, because I can't recall ever hearing Morgan being so gentle with anyone before. Not like this.

"I'm sure." I nod.

"You're not..." he pauses, and gives me a look, like I'm supposed to read his mind. I give him one back. "_You know_."

"No, I don't know," I say with a short laugh, because it should be obvious. "Or else I wouldn't be giving you this look right now."

"Are you," he pauses, deliberately brings his eyes to my stomach, then back up into my eyes. "You know, pregnant?"

I hit his shoulder. "No, I'm not pregnant!" I shout, jumping off of the toilet. I start to pace, for some reason.

"Okay, okay!" he raises his hands apologetically. "I'm not saying you look pregnant, I'm just throwing that out there."

"I'm not pregnant." I repeat. He nods. And even if I was, it wouldn't be that big of a deal. I can handle another kid. Matter of fact, I think I _want_ another kid. I always knew I wanted more than just Henry, so why not start now? The more I think of it, the more it sounds like a good idea. If you exclude the odd patch I'm having with Will right now.

"I'm not pregnant," I conclude with certainty. "But even if I _was_..."

Morgan raises his eyebrows at me. "If you were?" he prods.

I touch my stomach. "I think I can handle another baby right now." I say thoughtfully. Not that I've put much thought into at all. It's kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.

Morgan's facial expression is extremely hard to read. He sighs, sits on he floor and rests his arms on his knees. He's staring straight ahead and staying quiet. "If you have another baby," he sighs again. Eventually he looks my way. "You won't have time for the BAU."

Instantly I get the urge to correct him, say that I'll make time, but he's right. I won't have time. I'd have to quit working at the BAU if I made my family larger. At least until Henry and the second baby were older. I don't know what to say now. "You don't think I should have another baby?" I ask him, frowning.

He laughs. "It's not my decision, JJ."

But still, I want him to tell me what he thinks is best. I rub my stomach. He smiles at it. "Besides, it might be too late to decide that, anyways." he's smiling sadly at my stomach.

"Yeah," I say, looking down.

He sits up, suddenly all gong ho about helping me. I'm really glad. "Okay, here's the thing. Do you want another baby?" he's asking me all serious and it reminds me of the therapist I had to visit weekly after my sister committed suicide. I stare at him; shoulders back, chest out, face forward, like I'm being put in the hot seat.

"Yeah, I think I do." I say, smiling.

He sighs, but for me, forces a smile. "Then we should get you tested and," he looks down at my stomach, which is covered by the protection of my hand. "If you are, we'll celebrate, I guess."

"Thank you, Morgan," I say sincerely. I don't think he even realizes how much I mean it.

"For what?" he looks up. He's sitting lower than me, in front of the toilet, his face meeting my knees, his eyes staring at me helpfully. It'd be awkward if either one of us actually stopped and looked at the situation.

"For pretending you think it's a good idea." I say honestly.

He forces another smile, just for me. "You're welcome." he pats my knee gently, helps me up from the toilet with his hand, then stops at the door. "Do you have to puke again? Before we get in my car?"

"No," I shake my head. "I don't think."

He snaps his fingers. "We'll bring a safety bag. Just in case."

* * *

"Thanks for driving me," I say, the second he stops the engine in the car. I see the fumes in the rearview mirror on the passenger side, pollute the air then fade. "Do you think I should have asked Will to come with me instead?"

Morgan and I are sitting outside a convenient store. The place is super-small, that sells only your basic needs - pregnancy tests included - and Morgan, while trying to act like this situation isn't totally freaking him out, decided to drive me there since purchasing a turkey took shorter time than we predicted, and we still have a little extra time on lunchbreak. Besides, Hotch hasn't called about a case. Then again, isn't that my job?

"Nah," Morgan decides, pulling the keys from the ignition and playing with them in his hands. "He'll be surprised. You know, if there is something in there."

I laugh. I laugh because he's trying to act cool about this, because he's failing, and because though I lost Reid, I still have Morgan, who is a terrific friend, it turns out. I open the passenger door and before stepping out, I ask him, "Are you coming inside?"

He squints at me. "Do you need me to?"

"I'd kind of like you to," I insist. "People kind of ogle you funny when you buy a pregnancy test... I want to avoid any suspicious glares."

He reluctantly opens his door and steps out, though I know he doesn't want to. He opens the glass door, and very gentlemanly steps aside so I can go first. I smile at him briefly as I step inside the warm store.

"You know everyone will think I'm the dad, right?" he whispers into my ear, as I head straight to the aisle that supplies basic feminine-care needs. I nod subtly in response, as he, surprisingly, follows me down the aisle.

"You don't have to stay with me the whole time, if you don't want to." I tell him. There are so many choices to choose from, I'm not sure which is most accurate. Should I go with the purple box? The white one? Perhaps the gray one? I pick one up and turn it over to read the instructions, although I've used one before.

"I don't mind," he grabs a box, which makes me laugh. He starts reading it, then makes a face. "Which one's the right one?"

"I'm not sure," I say, putting the box I was holding back into the selection. "I guess any's just as good."

He hands me the one he's holding and smiles weakly. "I guess this one then," I take it from him and look at the purple box he chose. "Maybe it'll bring you good luck."

I scrunch my face up at him. "Good luck?"

He shrugs awkwardly. "Or whatever," he points to the restroom sign up ahead. "Just go pee."

I swing the box at him and smile, heading toward the big sign. "Don't mind if I do." I say, smirking. He grins back at me, then heads for the junk food aisle. Of course he does.

As I head in the restroom, which is empty, I think about how I'd completely forgotten to pay for the damned thing. I laugh at myself, picturing myself taking a wet pregnancy test up to the counter, opened and used, and paying for it just like that. I'm laughing all while I unbutton my pants, strip them down and hover above the stick. After my duties are done, I place the test down on the box and wash my hands. The back of the box says I should wait two minutes. So I do. I pace, I sing to myself, I tap my boots on the tile floor to a beat I made up in my mind on the spot. I check my watch on my wrist, and two minutes has indeed passed.

I reach for the test, but before I see the results, I close my eyes. I picture myself pregnant five months from now, and making plans to quit my career. I picture Will and I still going through a rough spot in our relationship. I picture Henry sitting up, touching my stomach, reaching for his little brother or sister. I want another baby, but is now really a good time? I decide either way, I have to know, so I open my eyes and read the results.

Not pregnant. Just a minus sign. I collect the items and heave them into the trash. I can't tell you why I've been puking, but apparently, it's not because of a fetus. I step out of the bathroom, arms folded, and catch up with Morgan, who is crunching on chips in the corner.

"You're frowning." is the first thing he says to me.

"No baby," I say.

He frowns too. But strangely, beneath the frown, is something else. Something distant. Relief, maybe. "I'm so sorry, JJ," he touches my arm sympathetically. "You guys could still try-"

"No, no," I shake my head. "Maybe it's for the best." I shrug halfheartedly.

We stand in silence. "We should probably get back to work now." I say, still kind of sulking.

"You gonna be able to hold stuff down?" he asks, walking us up to the register.

I shrug, and stare out of the window. "I'll have to try, I guess." I say solemnly. He pays for the chips and the pregnancy test, and I thank him quietly as he leads me out to his car and drives me back to the BAU. On the way there, he brings up Chicago one more time.

"I think it'd be nice for you to get away, you know?" he says, stopping at a red light. I'm tracing lines on the frosted windows. "And not just get away to solve murder cases, but actually something positive."

I nod, with my head against the glass. "I'll go." I say.

His face lights up similar to a Christmas tree. "Really?" he beams. "I'm glad. I know she will be, too. Boy, I can't wait until she sees you."

I can't understand why he's so excited, but I force myself to be happy for him. He did it for me.


	4. Chapter Four

**Author's note: **Not too sure on how I feel about this chapter. Let me know! ;)

* * *

I arrive home with a pounding headache, which is interfering with my nonstop queasiness. Morgan convinced Hotch to let him have off to visit his mom, and I got off because I'm too sick to travel. Or so Hotch thinks. I throw my bag down immediately and head directly into Henry's bedroom. He's wide awake, scrunching balls of Play-Doh eagerly within his hands. Will's not in the room, but I'm guessing he's somewhere amongst the household. I grab a chunk of blue Play-Doh and feel it's almost-damp, cool and squishy texture between my fingers.

"Hi, Mommy." Henry says to me subconsciously; he's too invested in his creation to actually really notice me. It doesn't bother me, I enjoy watching him form a village of unfamiliar shapes and things on a sheet.

"Hey, honey," I say back, stroking his hair back with the hand that isn't stuck to gooey Play-Doh. "How've you been?" it feels like it's been ages since I've last spoken to my son. It makes me feel really sad, and at the same time, makes me question my ability to raise a second child. If I had another, I'd certainly have to quit the BAU; or at the very least, cut back on my hours. I could maybe still be involved with the FBI, but I'm not entirely sure what other job options there are for me. It's making me kind of nervous just considering another job offer.

"Good, Mommy." he says in a child-like excited tone, holding a funny shaped Play-Doh sculpture up toward my face. It's definitely some sort of animal, but the features seem kind of distorted. It makes me smile proudly. I take the crafted animal in my hands. "It's Rudolph." he clarifies.

I look at Rudolph's misshaped antlers and feel something sharp form in the back of my throat. It feels like it's cutting off my ability to talk, so I clear my throat. I feel tears prick the corners of my eyes. My son created this, and I wasn't here to help him. I wasn't here to see him create many imperfect creations that look perfect to me. I give Rudolph his own special place on the sheet that's covered in an assortment of colorful Play-Doh.

"You like it?" he asks, beaming at me with such hope. My hand graces his small, warm cheek and I cup it, leaving it there for a second.

"I love it." is all I can say behind the heaviness of my sadness. Will comes into the room, wiping his hands on a hand-towel. He looks surprised to see me.

"You're home?" he looks at the wall clock down the hall. "You're home so early. No case?" he sits beside me on the floor, grabbing bits and pieces of torn-off green Play-Doh, and he rolls it in his two hands until it becomes one long, fat pole. Then he starts crunching it into a ball. He repeats this over and over. The Play-Doh never grows tired, it just keeps forming to the shape he asks it to.

"Yeah," I shrug pensively. I'm not sure how to go about asking his permission to visit Morgan's mother. He doesn't seem to be mad at me for being miserable earlier, so that's a good sign. I smile tentatively at Henry, whose in front of us, starting on a new glob of Play-Doh, this time making something shorter and stubbier than Rudolph. "I didn't feel too good earlier."

"Hard day?" he asks, like he's genuinely curious. I think he's trying extra hard to be extra nice to me today. Maybe now's a good time to ask.

I sit up and start making an actual shape out of the blue Play-Doh still cupped in my hands. "Will, I know I've been gone a lot lately..." I begin hesitantly. I make my speech very slowly, easing him and myself into it, so he can process each syllable carefully before agreement. Or before an argument occurs. "And I'm really sorry about that. You have to understand, though-"

"I do understand." he insists, giving me a weak smile. "I've lost some good friends of mine, as well. I know how hard it is to just move on with your job," he locks his eyes on the masterpiece he's creating in his palms. "I've lost people in the field."

"So then you understand why I've been distracted." I'm saying this to make sure we're both on the same page.

He nods at me, which to me feels sincere, then drops the ball of Play-Doh uselessly on the sheet. "No good, son," he comments, patting Henry's shoulder after wiping his hands off on the towel. "You're much better than me." Henry smiles a bright, excited smile, and Will returns with one identical to it.

Watching them both interact definitely makes me feel better about my day. But not so much about the trip I'm secretly planning with Morgan. I feel the truth bubble up to the surface, and any minute I might blow, so I just dive in head-first. "Morgan invited me to Chicago to meet his mother for Thanksgiving," I say quickly. Will looks my way. His expression is kind of emotionless; not really much to read or to dissect. Just there. I decide to continue, because I'm guessing silence beats yelling.

"We'd be going tonight so I could be home for Thanksgiving tomorrow," I start playing with my hair nervously; twirling it, braiding it then un-braiding it repeatedly, to keep myself from stammering off. "And it won't take too long. It's important to Morgan's mother that she thanks me for helping with Reid, I guess."

Will sighs. The first noise I've heard him make since I started spieling off on my rant. "When did you both decide this?" he asks me, very still, very calm. I'm not sure how to react to this. I expected him to react one of two ways: Either scream and shout and say, "_No, my girlfriend is NOT going over to some other man's house and spending the day before Thanksgiving with HIS family!_" or, "_Do you really have to? Okay, come back safely. And hurry back!_" but not like this. This is hard to understand. I expected a reaction; this isn't a reaction, this is like asking my mom if I can go out for ice cream with the new kid in my class.

"Morgan asked me at work. I told him I'd have to run it by you, and that you probably wouldn't like the idea, but..."

He looks down, grabs some more Play-Doh and digs his thumbnail deep into it, until it begins forming a thin line. "I'm not going to stop you from going," he says quietly, almost under his breath. "I don't want to stop you if you want to go."

"It's not so much me wanting to go as it is that it's important that I go." I'm not sure if it's my uneasiness, but that almost sounded like it made no sense whatsoever. "It'll be nice to just meet her, ya know?"

He doesn't respond. He pulls his thumbnail out of the Play-Doh, reveals an even deeper line in the glob, then tosses the ball around like one of those gumball machine bouncy balls you can buy with twenty-five cents.

"I can stay if you'd like," I say. "But I'll be back before tomorrow."

"If you want to go, you should go." he says, sitting up on his knees. Slowly he starts cleaning up the sheet of Play-Doh, now that Henry's scampered off to across the room, entertaining himself with an action figure. I watch Henry for a second; he lifts the action figure above his head, sends it soaring through the sky, then back down with the rest of the soldiers collected on the floor. "If it's that important."

I'm not sure if he's angry or not. "It's not _important, _per se," I sit up and start helping him scrape or pick off the excess pieces that somehow wound up Henry's kiddie table. "It's not like it's something I _have_ to do. It's not like it's a case."

"You'd leave for that too," he says kind of coldly. "So just go." He sits up, holding the sheet and starts walking into the kitchen. I'm still sitting on the floor, kind of shell-shocked. I'm not sure on whether I should get up, follow him into the kitchen or stay here. I stay here, in this exact position, with my feet tucked under my butt until Will comes back with a wet piece of paper towel.

"I can get it," I offer. I figure cleaning up is the least I could do.

He shakes his head. "I've got it."

"Will."

He looks up briefly. "Yeah?"

I don't know what else to say. He seems to get how torn I am, because once he's done wiping the table clean, he looks at me before he exits the room and says, "Just go. Really. Have a good time. We'll see you tomorrow."

I follow Will into the den, and he's scraping leftover food from a plate into the sink. He flicks the switch and the disposal makes a grungy noise, as it chops up and swallows down the food. I walk up to him, resting my arms on the counter. "I don't get what's going on." I say kind of boldly.

He tears off a piece of paper towel from the rack and shrugs downheartedly. "You want to go, I said you could go." he sprays cleaner on the piece of paper, like a maid on the job, and starts heading down the hall to go back to Henry's room. Instead, I tug on his arm and pull him back, because if there's one place I don't want to be having this conversation in, it's our son's bedroom. In the pit of my stomach, something forms. Something's coming next, I can feel it.

"I don't want to leave us like that," I say, sounding sappy. "I want you to say _something._"

"I thought you just wanted me to go along with whatever you decide?" now he's mad at me. His cheeks turn fiery red, his forehead is wrinkling and his nostrils are flaring. He's really pissed. "Isn't that what you want out of me? Isn't that all you want from me? All the fucking time?"

I hiss at him, run and shut Henry's door, then shush Will again. He looks completely unmoved, like him swearing in front of our toddler is perfectly okay. We've never done it before, and I don't want to start now; especially when he's learning his words.

"Would you keep it down?" I snap at him, in a low, well-mannered tone. "Henry doesn't have to hear us fighting."

He raises his hands, tosses the paper towel on the floor carelessly. "I'm sorry," he sighs, stroking his head in his hand. "I didn't mean to swear like that."

"It's okay." I mutter.

"No, it's not okay." he interrupts, his voice desperate to remain calm, but it's challenging, I can tell; he wants to fire back at me. "What the hell's going on, JJ?" his accent seems thicker right now, and his voice is shaking. He's either seriously frustrated or really brokenhearted. It's hard to tell which is which.

"What do you mean?" I ask, quivering. I feel like I've been put on the spot.

"You're spending all of your time with Morgan. _All of your time,_" he juts his head up in the direction of Henry's room. "It's like we're not a part of your life anymore."

"Henry is a part of my life!" I practically scream at him, my voice sounding shaky and uneven. "I love my son more than anything."

He frowns, sighs through his nose and lets his arms fall to his side, defeated. "Then where do I fit in?" I open my mouth to speak, but words don't come out. He's already halfway across the other side of the house, sitting on the living room sofa. I sit beside him, awkwardly, like we're strangers and we're having a hard time forming small-talk.

"I didn't want this," I say under my breath. "We just grew apart."

He nods sadly. "I know this wasn't your intention." he says, also quietly, like he's almost ashamed or too bitter to say it. "It's just, JJ..." he trails off, shaking his head at the coffee table. A single white rose sits lonesomely in a thin glass vase. Despite it's thirsty texture, something tells me it's having a better day than me.

"It used to be just you and me, you know?" he says, finally catching my eye.

I don't understand. "What do you mean?" I ask; I don't say it stand-offish, I'm just honestly confused. "You mean, like before we had Henry?"

"No, no," he shakes his head, frowning at my misunderstanding. "I mean, it used to be just you and me, and our family."

I pause, waiting for the ball to drop, the world to stop spinning. He stays quiet; I stay confused. "And?" I ask.

"And," he sighs. "There is no you _and _me. There's a you, and there's a me, but there's no you and me together." I inhale sharply, not expecting such honesty. But above all, I wasn't expecting honesty to taste so... simple. Matter of fact, it's practically tasteless.

"You're not saying anything." he says to me, after what feels like an eternity passes before someone makes a sound. Even Henry's being remarkably quiet. No faint sound of him making fake swooshing noises as his action figure plummets through the air; no nothing.

"See, you're not saying anything," he says, as I remain perfectly quiet and untouched. "Because you're not surprised. And you don't care."

I cut him off there. "_Not caring_ sounds harsh." I say quickly, defensively, like all of a sudden I give a damn.

"But it's the truth." he reaches forward and makes me flinch when his fingers land on my wrist. The way he's staring at me so intently as he talks to me is kind of wigging me out. He seriously reminds me of a school counselor lecturing me on the importance of not allowing the media's unrealistic views on the female body to make me insecure. "JJ, this has been a long time coming. You've had to of seen it."

No, not really. Not really much has changed, if you look at through a pair of eyes that sees the same house, the same bed, the same person and the same child day after day. It starts becoming routine, and you don't notice the little mix-ups here and there because they start to blend in after a while. But the longer I take to reply, and the longer I think it through, I see that he doesn't mean something's changed that you can see. Like he didn't buy an overpriced sports car or a new box spring mattress. He means our relationship in it's entirety. "Things have been hard lately, yeah." I find myself admitting to it shockingly. I'm usually immediately on defense.

Will sighs, like we're finally getting somewhere. What's shocking of all to me is how easy he's handling things. "Look JJ, this has been going on long before Reid's passing," he says it so quietly, like the very words will burst me into tears. Talking about Reid's death definitely makes me tear up, but not to the point where he needs to tiptoe around it. "We've been so distant. We're together just to stay together. We're not romantically connected, or emotionally. We're bound by our child and that's it." His words make me feel odd inside. They're not gutting me like they would have a year ago, but they're still so surprising. A bitter taste pools over me, because if there's one thing I cannot stand, it's change. It's inevitable, but maybe that's the scariest part of the whole thing.

It's not that breaking up with Will is actually a difficult thing to do. Technically, it's not the actual losing him that's the hard part. It's separating Holidays with Henry, and not coming home to a familiar face night after night. Not taking Henry to the park with his dad, and not sharing coffee with someone in the AM. It's the little things that I've grown accustomed to that I'm fearful of losing. It's the comfort of knowing someone's there, even if I'm hardly with him, anyways. A weird fog feels like it's hovering around us, like it's waiting for us to say it. Say it out loud, then the fog will disappear.

"You're saying this so," I try to think of the right word. "So easily."

He sighs, sits up straighter and starts fixating on his wrist watch, like suddenly he's a perfectionist and the band needs to be adjusted just so. "JJ, I really should tell you..." he covers his face with his hands and blows air out through his fingers heavily. "I've been drawing closer to someone myself."

I'm not sure how to feel. Again, I feel kind of numb. The whole situation feels oddly nonexistent. It's like when you're in the water, and you see a great big wave straight ahead, and you close your eyes, just anticipating it to crash over you, and you're waiting for it to just happen already, but you find out that the wave missed you and you're kind of disappointed in a weird way. I want myself to feel the pain now, so I can get it over with. When I don't feel anything, I'm disappointed, because I'm scared it'll hit me twice as hard later.

When I don't ask about this woman, he tells me for himself. "She's a friend of my brother's. We haven't done anything, but we've been talking lately," he starts fidgeting with his watch again. "She's even helped with Henry before, when he's had a mild tantrum."

All of these emotions I _should_ be feeling, and the fact that I'm lacking them, is getting to me. I cradle my head in my hands, because it's all I can do. He shuts up. Eventually, his hand reaches my head and stats gently petting my hair.

"JJ, I didn't think you'd take it this hard. We're not really together anymore, Jen." I never hear him call me by my first name. It's strange to hear it. "We haven't been in months, you know that."

It's my fault Henry's going to drift away from his dad. And what if Will decides to be an ass and fights for custody of Henry? I'm almost positive the mother almost always gets the upper-hand, especially in parents without a marriage, but still. I couldn't handle that, too. "I just need to process this." I say, my voice sounding muffled.

He stops petting my hair, and takes his hand back. "Take your time," he whispers to me. "Go visit Morgan. You need to get away. Clear your head."

"And what?" I ask, turning from my hands to face him. "You'll be gone when I get home?"

"We'll figure that out then." he says.

* * *

"You've been quiet." Morgan says to me, the first sentence I can recall him saying to me since we arrived on the plane. When he drove to my house to pick me up, he said small-talk things like, _Not bad weather for Thanksgiving, _or _You warm in that?_ but I've hardly said much of anything. It's not that I'm deliberately trying to be a bitch, it just seems that way. He grabs the pack of M&Ms he's been fiddling with since we sat down and finally opens them. M&Ms come streaming out, and he struggles to catch them. I laugh.

He looks my way, eyebrows shaped in confusion. "_Now _you laugh?" he asks, laying a blue M&M on the tip of his tongue. "Five minutes ago I pointed to a man who got chewed out by a stewardess for grabbing her ass, and you didn't make a sound." he cocks his head to the side, grinning a little. "What? Did you finally come to life?"

I shrug one shoulder. "Maybe I didn't find a man sexually assaulting a woman funny." I say hastily.

He's staring at me. Though I'm looking straight ahead, and I can't see him, only barely on the corner of my eye, I can feel his eyes meeting my face. "Whoa, whoa," I finally look his way. "I never said the part where he grabs her was funny. The loud scolding, however, _was._"

I try not to chuckle, because I'm in a pissy mood, and I don't want him to make me feel better, if that makes sense. If it doesn't, you're not a woman. A woman who feels extremely hormonal on this particular today. I sit back and stay quiet.

Morgan does the same. "JJ, I didn't force you to come." he finally says, his voice vibrating as the plane sways a little harshly in the air.

"I know." I say back, closing my eyes.

"If you didn't want to come-"

"I'm here, aren't I?" I hiss. He stares at me blankly. I'm bet he's sorry he asked me to tag along. He doesn't say anything else, but his eyes are filled with such disappointment, I want to look away. Instead, I lower my head to his shoulder and lay it there. His shoulder is warm, and my head manages to fit perfectly. I allow my eyes to close, and for my body to relax.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to him. "I'm sorry I'm so moody."

"It's okay." he whispers back to me, his cheek pressing against the top of my head.

I attempt to stifle a yawn. "I'm so tired." I barely say, before I'm out.

When I wake up, only fifteen minutes later, Morgan's asleep too. The side of his face is still pressed to the top of my head, and his neck is craned in a funny way I'm betting he'll have one hell of a sore neck later. But I smile. He looks so peaceful sleeping, it makes me feel peaceful. And I can't help getting this strange feeling, like this what I should see. This is what I need. This is what I need laying beside me, in the comfort and warmth of his body. I try not to fall in love with him right then and there, but it's difficult. I pick an M&M out of the bag that's peeking out and pop it into my mouth, then lower back down so I can lay my head on his shoulder again. For now, I don't have to think about anything but the vibration of the plane underneath my shoes, Morgan's body heat and steady heart beating in my ear, and the lovely thought that in not so very long from now, I'll be enjoying a Turkey dinner.


	5. Chapter Five

**Author's note:** The Holidays are almost over, and New Years is right around the corner. I hope you guys had a wonderful Holiday season and it was spent with those whom you love and hold closest to you. My Christmas was great, and I'm so grateful I was able to spend it with my family; I hope you guys were as fortunate as me. I genuinely want to thank you for continuing to read my stories and take the time to click favorite on them, or to favorite me as an author, or to set up alerts, or to even write a review. I love having my work appreciated, and it means a ton to me. You all are tremendously talented with your stories and I look forward to reading YOUR work and to hearing from you guys. In case I don't post another chapter before we ring in '11, I want to say I hope you guys have an amazing New Years and that you stick to your resolutions - and if you don't, don't let it get to you - !

* * *

Morgan and I are sitting at the airport in Chicago, waiting for his mom to come pick us up. The airport smells kind of musty here, and the bathroom's need a more thorough cleaning, but so far everyone seems to be friendly. I couldn't count how many people have strolled by and just voluntarily wished us a happy Holidays. And if it weren't for the uncomfortable metal bench making my back stiff, I'd be quite content here.

"You slept well." Morgan chuckles, gulping a sip of his airport coffee he's holding in his fist.

"Did I?" I say, playing with my hair, shaking it up. I readjust my black sweater and use the tip of my fingernail to pry off a sticker that apparently found its way on the toe of my boot somehow. I tried to look my best for this particular occasion, or at least better than how I've been looking the last week and a half. I showered, I laid out my clothing options and styled my hair. I feel the farthest thing from pretty, but when Morgan saw me, standing there in all-black, my hair curled along with my lashes, he stared at me funny and said, "You look beautiful, JJ." almost with a twinge of sadness buried within. All I could do was nod and thank him.

"Yes, you did," he says. He shakes the paper cup, attempts to take one last sip, then aims for the garbage can five feet ahead of us. With a determined arm, he just makes the bin. He smiles at it proudly, then flattens his shirt. "And you don't snore."

I scoff. "Of course I don't snore," I insist. "I've slept on the jet before, you know."

"Yes, but on the jet, you didn't mumble things in your sleep. On the plane, however..." I slap his arm.

He raises his eyebrows and shrugs, like either way he's not going to tell me the truth, and then smiles. I think he's really excited to see his mom. More excited than he wants to let on. I look out of the window in front of us and watch people fill the parking lot full of cabs and expectant visitors, as everyone makes their way to their relatives and friends. I see a group of young girls surround themselves around an elderly woman, and they look so blissful it's heartwarming. I wonder if Morgan will envelope his mother the same way.

"I was looking at the photos on your mantle back at your place," I tell him. He looks my way, looking surprisingly uneasy by my choice of conversation. "Was the man in those photos your dad?" I feel nosy like I'm prying into his business, but at the same time, I can't stop my curiosity from taking over.

"Yes." he nods, his thumb tracing the lines on his palm.

I swallow. "Do you think about him a lot during this time of year?" Immediately upon saying that, I wonder why on earth I had. What kind of a question is that, anyway? When his face seems to look sadder, I quip, "I mean, do you miss your family this time of year?"

"Of course," he focuses his eyes on something outside. "It's always harder being away from them during a time when families should be together."

I want to ask him why he doesn't visit them, because he hadn't given me a straight enough answer back at his house, but what he's had his eyes on finally comes to focus and she's carrying a floral purse and is wrapped warmly in a cashmere sweater. I'm guessing by the big beaming smile on Morgan's face right now, it's his mother.

"Mama!" he says, rising to his feet. She has her arms extended and she's smiling ear-to-ear, and Morgan wraps her in his big arms until her feet rise from the tiled floor and he spins her around gently.

"Oh, baby, I've missed you," she says, touching his face. She stares at him for a while, then brings him into another tight hug. When Morgan is hugging her, he catches my eyes and makes a face, like he's semi-embarrassed to be getting this much attention from his mom. I think he loves it. He finally gets her to pull away, then points to me. I stand up right away, feeling under inspection. Should I curtsy, or bow?

"This is Jennifer Jareau, Mom," Morgan informs her, pointing to me with his hand. I wave awkwardly. "She's the liaison in the BAU. Basically, she brings the cases to us."

His mom walks right up to me, takes my hands in hers and says, "So you're the woman sending my son out on all of these dangerous missions?" I don't know what to say, so I glare at Morgan. He laughs.

"I'm kidding!" she insists, hugging me also. I hug back, because her embrace feels so tender and loving, just like a mother's should. "You both must be freezing! I've got the car heated up, let's go."

She takes my hand in one of hers, and Morgan's in her other. "Mom, you finally figure out how to work that car remote starter I bought for you?" Morgan asks.

She flaps her hand at me halfheartedly. "Oh please, that thing's so easy," she looks over her shoulder to wink at him. "Don't insult my intelligence."

I laugh along with the two of them, because something about her, though I can't quite place it, reminds me of my sister.

* * *

"Throw your stuff down over in the living room," she yells out, and her voice sounds like a voice coming over the intercom in stores. "I've got the turkey in the kitchen. It finished just when I was leaving. I'll make you guys a plate."

On her way to the kitchen, she turns around and her bracelets jingle noisily on her wrists as she instructs Morgan. "Take her to the dining room, I'll be in in a second."

My eyes land on her bandage wrists, which I almost forgot about it, and I wonder why Morgan hasn't said anything to her about it. Or why she hasn't. Morgan's hand lands on the small of my back. "Come on, it's this way." he says, leading me down the hallway.

The dining room is kind of small, but it's very homey. The table is long, with matching chairs, and there's candles lining up on the walls and near the plates. There's flowers and Thanksgiving decorations, and it's so lit up and gorgeous I want to take pictures and design my house just like it.

"Oh my goodness." I breathe out.

"She gets real into this stuff," he says, pulling out a chair for me. "It's like this every year."

"It's beautiful," I say, but that is such an understatement I feel guilty.

"Yep," he beams, sitting across from me, setting up the napkins. "It feels like home again."

I don't want to get on the topic of his old life, because I think at the airport I wigged him out, but I still feel like something's bothering him about it. I think maybe he wants to talk about it, and maybe I should be the one he talks to about it. His mom comes in with the turkey, and it's glistening merrily, with just the right bronze color a turkey should have.

"It looks amazing!" I say, eying it for the glory it deserves.

She lays it down right in front of us teasingly, then hits Morgan's arm. "Would you do your mama a favor?" she asks, resting one knuckle on her hip. Morgan looks up at her, answering her silently. "Would you take out the trash?" she looks at me, shaking her head. "I swear, my back just ain't what it used to be."

I smile at her, laughing lightly. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?" I offer, because I feel terrible just sitting here, waiting for the food to be brought to me.

She shakes her head then hesitates. "Actually, if you don't mind; I just need some help bringing out the glasses."

"Absolutely," I say quickly, pushing my chair back and following her.

"Thanks so much, Darling." she says. The kitchen is blue and white and feels more like a Southern kitchen as far as the rest of the house goes, but it feels pleasant and warm in here. I look at the BEST MOM magnet on the fridge and smile.

"In there." she says, pointing to the cupboard above the sink. I pull out three glasses, careful not to drop any, and place them on the counter. She's preparing food on plates by the oven.

"You have any kids?" she asks me, as she cuts into something. I walk by her side, wiping my hands.

"One," she looks up at me. "A son."

"Aren't they just the sweetest things when they're young?" she marvels, collecting a plateful of peas, mashed potatoes and corn. "I swear, Derek was the biggest mama's boy growing up."

I laugh. "I can tell," I lean in closer. "He still is."

She looks very thrilled by this. "How old is your son?"

"He's two, almost three." I say. I feel guilty spending the day before Thanksgiving here, and not at home with my son, but I try not to think too long about it; because if I think any longer, I'll be filled with such guilt it'll be painstaking.

"Ugh, that's just the best age," she smiles up at me. She looks down at my hand, and for a second I thought she was going to ask if I was married, but decided not to.

"I'm not married," I say for her benefit.

She looks up at me, startled that I read her mind, then softens. "It doesn't mean you're any less of a mother." she tells me.

"Thanks." I say honestly, because there has been times I wonder if Will and me not being married will ever reflect poorly on Henry. Morgan's mom just made my worries ease, even if those words probably seemed so small to her.

"Derek really appreciates all you did, for helping him with Spencer's death and all," she says. When she locks her dark eyes on mine, I can tell she means it. "I appreciate it as well. Beyond what I can express. Honestly." she touches my arm. "Thank you."

I'm not sure what to say, or if I should hug her or put my arm around her or what. Instead, I find myself staring at her for much too long.

"You know, I think you kept him in-check throughout that whole situation," she says, then focuses back on the plate of food accumulating on the dinner plates. "Without you, I think he would've lost it."

I never really thought about it. But now that I am, I believe her. And I believe without him, I would have lost it too.

* * *

"The turkey is amazing, Ma, really." Morgan compliments her, taking a sip of his wine. It's kind of funny seeing Morgan drink red wine. It's not something I ever pictured him doing, or liking. But I think he's doing it out of respect for his mother.

"Oh yes, definitely, it's fantastic," I say equally as admirably.

She smiles, then wrinkles her forehead at my untouched wine glass. "You don't like wine? I could have poured you something else." she says.

I shake my head. "Oh no, I'm fine."

"Yeah, JJ, what's up? I thought you love your red wine," he curves a smile. "I thought all women do."

"Yes, but..." I flip my hair over my shoulders and make a face. "That was _before_ I started _not feeling good_, therefore I don't want to _upset _my stomach." I'm saying certain words in a deeper tone, hoping Morgan will catch on.

He stares at me blankly for about a second, then widens his eyes, getting it. Thank God, I don't know sign language. "Ah, yeah," he looks at his mom, whose fixated on buttering up her potatoes, then replies back to me, "But I thought that _thing_ said that _you_ were not _sick_, remember?"

"Yes, but those _things _can be wrong."

She lifts her head up, puts her elbows on the table and brings her knuckles up to her chin. "Alright, what's going on here?" she asks, but not in an annoyed tone. Morgan sighs.

"Nothing, Mom." he says.

"Honey, are you pregnant? Because if you are, really, I could have gotten you water." I'm so taken by her blunt honesty I touch my stomach, wondering if maybe I _do _look pregnant after all. She laughs. "Oh don't panic, you look like you weigh a dollar and a penny soaking wet, but I could tell what you guys were talking about. I'm old, I'm not dumb."

I smile. "I don't think I'm pregnant, and your son helped me take a test anyway, but just to be on the safe side..." I push the wine glass away from me merely with my fingertips.

"He helped you take a test?" she asks incredulously. "That's funny. I can't even get him to take the trash out the right way."

I laugh. Morgan drops his jaw. "Hey, I'm sorry if your trash can outside is located in different street names every time I visit," he's trying to fight a smirk, because it'll give away this big facade that he's offended. "And besides, I just paid for the test, I didn't help her relieve herself on it."

"Ew, Morgan." I say, laughing.

He winks at me briefly, then starts collecting our plates. I stand up and offer my assistance, as does his mom. His mother is grinning wickedly, in a way that resembles Morgan when he's about to say something that he knows will freak someone out. "It's not my grandbaby in there, is it?"

I almost drop the plates I'm so shocked, and Morgan actually does. Thankfully the plates only drop on the table, and they weren't high enough to break. "Ma!" he yells, his cheeks turning a red flushy color I've never seen before. It looks like he's sunburned. "No way, it's not my baby," his smile grows wider. "I take care of my business."

"You must, because I'm never getting grandchildren from you." she groans, carrying leftover food into the kitchen.

I love the atmosphere of this place. Like everything's a joke, but in a good way, not an annoying one; and that they treat you like family, even if they've just met you. I wish I could come here every Thanksgiving. Sure beats Will's family.

* * *

I cuddle up close on his mother's couch, burying my face in the comfort of the pillow she let me borrow. His mom is coming down the hall with another round of blankets and a hot chocolate. She throws the blanket over me and sets the hot chocolate down. I turn over on my back to look at her.

"Hot chocolate did wonders for me when I was pregnant." she whispers to me, fixing my new bed, tucking me in in a very motherly manner.

"Thanks," I smile, sitting up to take a sip. The hot cocoa tastes so delicious it's hard to put it down, and the marshmallows add just the right amount of sweetness. I want to remind her that there's a greater possibility that I'm not expecting, but for some reason, I think my possibly being pregnant kind of gets her in grandma-mode, and I don't want to take that away. Even if my unborn baby is not her grandchild.

"Derek offered you his bed," she says. Her silhouette is about the only thing I can make out when she's standing in front of the hallway light. "You could have slept in there, you know, it'd have been a lot more comfortable."

"I'm good here, thanks." I smile my sweetest smile, then force myself to put down the homemade deliciousness that is his mama's hot chocolate, then dig myself deeper into the blankets.

"Goodnight, sweetheart." she says to me before flicking off the hallway light, then creaking up the staircase.

"Goodnight." I say softly back to her.

I find myself feeling more tired than I thought I was, until I hear shuffling around across the hall from me - Morgan's bedroom. I lay here and strain my ears to listen, for any sound at all, and soon barefeet making their way around on wood floors are all I hear.

Reluctant, I step out of my caccoon and I tap on his bedroom door. Interested and already driven, I twist his door handle. I don't bother thinking up reasons why this is wrong, stepping in without his approval, and just push the door open further until I see him, sitting there, in front of a computer screen. Immediately I block my eyes. "Sorry!" I cry out.

He jumps up, and I peek between my fingers. Well, his pants are up, so I'm relieved by that at least. I remove my hands from my face. "I'm sorry, I should have knocked."

"JJ, what are you doing in here?" he whispers to me, shutting the door behind me.

"I heard you were awake," I cross my arms, shivering in my pajama tank top. "I thought you might need some company."

He sighs and sits back down on his computer chair. I just stand here, unsure of what to do next. Exit? Apologize again? Keep standing here?

"Come over here." he finally says to me, and I do. He clicks on a tab on the desktop bar and something fills the screen. It isn't porn, like I thought he was watching; it isn't some half-naked girl or a wet T-shirt contest or anything close to that. Rather, it's a slideshow of photographs over Thanksgiving and Christmastime. All of him and his family, with his father.

"I'm putting together this slideshow for my mom," he tells me. "I think I'm going to show it to her tomorrow morning before we leave."

"I think she'll love it." I say wholeheartedly, with my voice cracking, because I feel partly guilty for naturally assuming he's up watching porn past midnight (what would you think?) and partly because this is beyond sweet of him. Maybe beyond what I expected of him.

"You think?" he asks, then clicks it, so the slideshow goes full-screen. One after another, image after image, I'm shown photos of him opening presents as a toddler, his father smiling on, holding a mug. His sisters celebrating over their new piano, his father sitting down with one of them on his knee, playing it.

"You asked me earlier why I never visit my family for the Holidays." he says, and he clicks the slideshow off entirely. I sit on his twin-sized bed and touch the football sheets. The room looks a lot like something a teenage boy would have, so it leaves me to believe his mom kept it the same, even after he left for college. "It's because of that reason right there."

"Your father?" I ask.

He nods. He joins me on the bed. "My mom gets really emotional this time of year. I think she misses him, and I think she's lonely, and I think the Holidays only bring that out even more. It's hard to be around, because I remind her so much of him, and at a time when she's already downhearted... I just think it's best to stay away."

"Are you sure that's what's best?" I ask, really gently. "Maybe she needs you around. I think you would want to be around, too."

"That's why I wanted you to come with me today," he looks down, then meets my eyes. "It made it easier. You made her laugh a lot. She likes you."

"I like her," I laugh. "I love her, actually. She's fantastic."

He smiles, but he still looks sad. The fact that I can't say or do anything to lift his spirits makes me feel sad, too. "Thanks for coming either way. You've been amazing, JJ, really. Through everything."

"You have too, Morgan," I touch his arm. "I didn't say that before, but I mean it."

"You know, without you? Through the whole Reid thing? I think I would have lost it." he tells me.

All I can do is nod, but yet again, it's such an enormous understatement and not at all what I should be saying. "I would have lost it too."

In a way, Morgan and I came into each other's lives right when we needed saving. We'd both been there all along, but we weren't really there until now.


	6. Chapter Six

**Author's note: **Hope y'all had a fantastic New Years! Here's to a new year, full of opportunities and chances to change what we need to change, or to accept what we cannot. I hope you all have been well and healthy and I thank you for being patient with me as I scramble together another chapter for ya. Most importantly, I hope you enjoy reading it and following JJ along with her emotional roller-coaster, and the complication that is Morgan and JJ's relationship. If there's anything any of you would like to see, please let me know, and I'll try to incorporate it in any way I can. Thank you, and Happy New Year! xoxoxo, Carrie.

* * *

The morning after, Thanksgiving morning, the house has a different smell. The scent of cinnamon ignites the house, and even though it's already 5 AM, Morgan's mother is up and raring to go, decorating the place in Thanksgiving's finest dinettes. I barely have time to shuffle my feet down the hall and into the bathroom to brush my teeth before his mom is filling me up a mug full of freshly brewed coffee in a cup that has orange and yellow leaves on it. I stretch out wide and long on the sofa and inhale the strong smell that just reeks Thanksgiving spirit intensely, and then his mom makes her way over to me, beaming, clutching the mug.

"I hope you're a morning coffee person," she says to me. It just so happens that I am. She places the mug atop a stack of magazines on the coffee table and watches me expectantly. I've hardly woken up, but I give her a pleasant nod and a thankful smile, and rub my eyes. My stomach feels slightly better today, which leaves me to believe the possibility of food poisoning or a 24-hour stomach flu occurred yesterday, rather than me being with-child. I sit up, readjust my shirt because my chest feels like it's spilling out of it with the scoopneck all twisted from sleeping in it. His mom doesn't say a word about it, just clasps her hands together and walks off to finish preparations in the kitchen. I wonder if she ever gets lonely, preparing a feast for no one in particular. I imagine her daughters pay her a visit, perhaps with their boyfriends or husbands. I'm not really sure if any of them are married or have children; I never asked Morgan. He never talks about his family.

Morgan comes out of his bedroom, which is right behind the very couch I'm sitting on, and his feet make a shuffling noise on the wood floors. It's strange to see Morgan without his big boots on, but it's even stranger to see him in loose-fitting pajama bottoms, a 5 o'clock shadow and a waistline without a gun attached. He yawns in his hands, then reclines on the arm of the couch. "You're up early," he says to me.

"I am." I agree almost inaudibly. It's way too early to function properly, let alone stream together breakfast-talk.

He points to the mug. "Are you drinking that?" he asks me. His voice sounds husky in the morning, and it kind of goes along with the rugged look he's sporting. It's kind of sexy, if you're into that sort of thing. I shake my head and hand him the mug. He accepts it silently, by jolting down a big sip before I could possibly change my mind.

I rub my face hard. "It's Thanksgiving." I announce flatly.

"Yes, it is," he says, sighing. "How are you feeling?"

"Physically, or...?"

"Either one," he says before swallowing another mouthful. "Pick one."

Instinctively, I tear at the edges of my fingernail, creating skin tears that lead to hangnails. I can't stop; as I talk, I can't look at him. "I've been better," I respond quietly. I don't want his mom to overhear me saying this. "I miss Reid."

Morgan stays quiet. Painstakingly quiet. It's almost startling. However, I keep talking.

"I woke up today thinking about him." Suddenly I wish I hadn't given him my drink; I'd really like to be sipping on something right now, filling my mouth whole of something that'll shut me right up. A burning hot beverage ought to do the trick. "I wonder how his mom is. Or what he'd be doing today."

He remains perfectly still for a moment, just staring out of the small window in the front door, holding the handle of the mug in his right hand, then keeping his left on the other side. All importantly, he watches the empty street outside of the house. "I bet he'd be reading a book right about now," he comments, subconsciously. "He'd definitely be awake. He's a morning person."

_He was a morning person._ I don't correct him. I play along. I lie flat on the couch again, until the heap of throw blankets buried beneath my weight soften underneath my back, like they're forming to my shape invitingly. "He'd definitely be awake." I nod. I prop my head up with my hand and try to picture him. I see long tousled hair, mismatched socks, brown corduroy pants and a gray sweater vest over a maroon button-up shirt and a tie. Of course a tie. I see a book about six-hundred pages long, single-spaced, with really small sized text, as he's flipping through page after page almost carelessly, but absorbing every word and keeping it sealed in his brain, just storing knowledge like it'd be any use to him; like he could know any more.

"I bet he'd be reading some really long book," I tell him, letting him on my vision. I feel like I'm handing Morgan over a key to the inside of my thoughts, where my imagination hides out. "Some really intense book with words hard to pronounce."

He chuckles softly. "Oh, yeah," he says, taking a slower sip. "And it'd make no sense to the average IQ, but with Reid, no way. Makes perfect sense."

I feel myself smiling. "And he'd be drinking coffee," I rest on my elbow, and I look up at him. "No, no, wait! Hot chocolate! Or maybe something different, because it's Thanksgiving?"

He thinks about this briefly, then nods rapidly. "He'd be sitting at that little antique table he bought, remember?"

I nod right away. Of course I remember. He seemed genuinely impressed by it, at least that's how he acted when he gave us a tour of his place. To Morgan and me and everyone else on the team (with the exclusion of Gideon), it was just a table. But to Reid, it was something worth much more than a place to put your silverware and meal. "Yeah, yeah!" I find myself getting extremely into this story. I can't help myself; it's easy to trick us into thinking it's really happening. Right now. He's there.

"He'd be writing his mom a letter," Morgan concludes. He slides in beside me on the couch without warning, and my head lays flat on his arm. I lift it up higher so I'm not putting any weight on it, but I keep it there. I'm comfortable, and he doesn't seem to care. "A really long letter. Telling her all about us, I bet."

"You think?" I ask. I wonder if that's how he's spent past Thanksgivings.

"Definitely." he insists, nodding with certainty.

"You think he's talking about us?" I ask. "Like, good things?"

Morgan nods slowly, intently, positively and sadly. So many emotions heaved into one strained nod. "No doubt."

I can't talk, because I feel like I'm going to start crying. I clear my throat, and forcefully dig apart a hangnail that's beginning to form. Blood surfaces beneath the torn layer of skin, but I keep picking away; it distracts me from the severe stinging in the corners of my eyes.

"Are you going to show your mom that slideshow before we go?" I ask him. I'm honestly interested, and it also dawns on me that we have to get going soon. With or without Will, I should spend Thanksgiving with my son. Also, I want to be here when sees it.

"Yeah, I don't know..." he puts the mug down, seeming self-conscious.

"What, you're not going to?" My voice sounds whiny. "She'll love it."

"I don't want to leave her all upset."

"She won't be upset," I touch his arm. "If she cries, I promise you, it'll be happy tears."

He meets my eyes. "Is that a good way to leave someone? In tears?"

I nod slowly, then smile a smile that feels tired but sincere. "It'll be good, I promise."

Silently, we come to an understanding. He stands up and calls for his mom. Within seconds, she arrives, apron tied behind her back, mascara put on. I stand up beside him, getting too excited to sit still. Something about witnessing someone being given a tremendously special gift. It's rewarding for even someone who had no part in giving it.

"I have something to give you." he announces, and it sounds like he's almost paranoid about it. I stifle a giggle. I think he hears it anyway, and glares at me over his shoulder. I reach forward and my hand touches his back, to reassure him. I feel his body tense when my hand reaches him, but immediately he relaxes. A crooked smile appears behind the fear.

His mom sits down on the recliner, wiping her hands on a towel. "You didn't have to do this, baby." she says. I can tell, she's happy about it, though. I sit on the arm rest beside the recliner, because I feel stupid just standing here. Morgan takes the small disc and slides it into the DVD player. It clicks satisfactorily, and he starts pressing buttons on the remote. Instantly, the screen goes black. His face darkens. He sits beside me on the couch, his elbows sitting on his knees. He looks so weary, it's hard to tell if he's going to call the whole thing off. I watch him until something fills the screen.

A video. I hadn't seen the video last night. It's little Morgan, I presume. About Henry's age, I'd guess. I look at his mom, even if Morgan's too afraid to. The light from the screen brightens her face and I can see, her eyes are already incredibly watery. I watch the screen. Here's little Morgan, in a blue jumpsuit and bright white sneakers, and a considerably large amount of hair, shuffling through presents underneath the lit-up Christmas tree. He picks up a rattle, shakes it, then falls down. His smile doesn't wither, and he's unafraid. A man appears from behind the camera and scoops Morgan up, resting him on his side. He's saying something to him, but it's hard to make out.

Even I'm too afraid to look at his mom. The video ends, and images start popping up, sliding away, only to be followed by more. Photo after photo shows his father as he ages along with Morgan and his daughters. Birthday photos, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas photos; they all tell a story. Photos of his father throwing a football. Of his dad at a baseball game. His dad cutting a turkey. I sneak a look at Morgan, because I can't help myself. He's not watching it. He's staring directly down to the wood floor. His mother, however, can't tear her eyes away.

Eventually, the video clicks off, and the blackness reappears. Silently, Morgan stands up and leaves the room. A disarray of clunking from the kitchen swallows up the tension in the living room, but his mom stays quiet, shell-shocked and stunned. Black tears stream down her cheeks. I don't know what to say.

Just like Morgan, she silently stands up and walks into the kitchen. I wait a minute to follow. I feel like I need to be invited in. I tip-toe my way, peer into the kitchen, and witness Morgan hugging his mom, like he's holding her up. Something about this embrace feels far more sincere than the one back at the airport. It's complete silence, because no words are necessary. This is all he needed to say.

* * *

Morgan pulls me up the driveway, and the car makes a squeal as it rocks forward before it comes to a complete stop. The car is heated and the windows are foggy, and it looks so frighteningly cold outside I'm upset I have to exit. Awkward fills the air as he and I unbuckle at the exact same time. My house looks so far away. My mind drifts off as it counts each step I have to cautiously take until I arrive on my porch, and get to walk inside my warm house. I watch snowflakes bitterly trickle from the sky and land on Morgan's car. Soon, more and more pile on, one after another. For a little while, it's all we're doing; just watching more and more snowflake hoard themselves on the car.

"Thanks for coming along with me." he finally talks, and he turns in his seat, giving me his full attention suddenly.

I twist in mine as well. "No problem," I smile weakly, because it's exhausting even the thought of me having to put together a Thanksgiving feast for just me and my son. "I had fun. Your mother is incredible, really."

He smiles too, but it looks as weak as mine. "She's great," he nods. "I can walk you up to your door if you'd like. Unless Will-"

"I'll be fine." I interject almost sharply. He can sense my uneasiness, or so I assume he does, because he takes his hand from the door handle and retreats it back to his lap. Calmly, I pat his arm.

"Thank you for inviting me. Tell your mom I said thanks next time you talk to her."

He nods faintly. "Will do." He twists the key in the ignition and the car fires back up, coming to life again. I step out of the car, make seven long strides up to my porch, successfully, without falling, and turn to wave goodbye to him before I walk inside. My house is unsuspectingly quiet. And I mean uncomfortably quiet, like I need to flick on the TV or start up the microwave just to hear something other than nothing at all. Water drips from the tip of the faucet and clatters harshly in the sink, and it sounds so loud, like it's echoing through the empty house.

My boots are tracking slush and mud throughout the kitchen, so I sit at the table and unzip them, sighing. "Will?" I call out. No one responds back. The sound of feet making their way into the kitchen sounds the room.

It's Becky. Becky is our babysitter. We don't really have to hire her very often, but occasionally, she'd come over and watch Henry for a couple of hours. Today must be one of those occasions. Although I can't think of what Will had to do.

"Becky?" I say, like it's a question. Her brunette ponytail swings as she walks over to me, and leans over the table.

"Hey, Jennifer," she says sweetly but tentatively. "Will asked me to come over, about three hours ago. I hope you're not mad."

I smile. "Of course I'm not mad," maybe she thinks I am, because I can't seem to make myself smile sincerely. "Did he tell you where he was heading?"

"No idea." she shakes her head, then clasps her hands together kind of strangely. "So, Henry is bathed and put to bed..." her voice trails off expectantly, so I know what's coming next; she's trying to hint towards her payment.

I grin at her, unzip my leather purse and slide my wallet out. As I fumble inside of it, I talk to her. "Did Will seem okay to you?" I ask.

She shrugs carelessly. "He seemed fine," she furrows her eyebrows, like she's reconsidering something. "For the most part."

"The most part?" I slip out the money and hand it to her. She starts backing up toward the door, afraid to be interrogated.

"Yeah, you know, he seemed kind of offish, but not upset." I'm not sure what that means, so I make a face. She turns and reaches for the handle.

"Wait, Becky," I call. She stops dead in her tracks, her sneakers screeching on the floor. "Did he say when he'd be coming back?"

"Actually no, he didn't." There's so much more I want to ask her, but I don't, because it's Thanksgiving, and she shouldn't be at my house; and secondly, she's not any help anyway. I smile and lean on the back of the chair.

"I gave you a tip. Thanks for babysitting, Becky." I force myself to smile.

She smiles back. "Thank you, Jennifer. Happy Thanksgiving."

"You too." she finally gets to leave, and now I've got no one. I don't expect Will to be returning anytime soon. After the way I left things when I took off for Chicago, I doubt our (my?) house is the place to be for him right now. Still, it's frustrating me that we left things so up-in-the-air like we did. I have no idea what to make of I zip my purse, I fish around for one more thing. I pull out a piece of paper buried beneath my chapstick and eyelash curler and compact mirror, and slide it into my jacket pocket.

* * *

I hurry my way up to the porch, because it's freezing cold outside and Henry's cheeks are the color of a tomato. I bounce up and down on my feet as I wait for someone to open the door, after I knock on it a few times. Eventually someone does. Will's brother, Jerry, opens the door and smiles at me.

"Hey, Jen!" he opens the screen door next and reaches forward, pinching Henry's puffy red cheeks. Henry smiles and giggles in delight. "Hey, little man!"

"Is Will here?" I ask, panting. I don't mean to sound rude, but I'm beginning to lose feeling in the soles of my feet. I nuzzle Henry closer to the collar of my wool coat.

"Yeah, he came over a while ago." he steps aside, and I take that as an invitation to come in. He shuts the door thankfully, and I put Henry down. Immediately, he trampers off into other rooms. My motherly instinct kicks in and I shout, "Be careful!"

"Can I do something for ya?" Jerry asks me, accepting my coat when I take it off. He hangs it on the coat hanger, right on top of Will's.

"I just need to talk to Will." He gets this deeply concerned look on his face, so I force a smile. "Just for a minute."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," he leads me down the hallway and into the dining room. Will is sitting down, peeling potatoes. I almost laugh, because it's a funny sight to see. Will looks up, startled, and throws down the potato peeler.

"Don't stop on my account." I say, joking. He doesn't crack even a fraction of a smirk.

Jerry senses the tension, and awkwardly steps out. "You're here." Will shifts in his seat and readjusts his sweater. "Where's Henry?"

"He's here too," I pull out a chair and take the peeler in my hands, then reaching for a potato, very slowly, giving him ample opportunity to object. He doesn't. "I thought you should be with your son on Thanksgiving."

"Funny," he strokes the stubble sprouting on his face. "I thought the same about you. I thought you could use some time with him."

"I know what's happening here," I realize that once I say that, that it's a lie. I actually don't understand what's happening at all. I sit up straighter. "Actually, I don't; but that shouldn't affect Henry's Thanksgiving. He should be with his parents, regardless."

"Even if we're not getting along?" he asks me.

"We don't have to fight." I retort.

"We can't help it." he deadpans.

"Not with that attitude."

Jerry peers inside, tapping the wall to get our attention. "Henry's in the living room, can you guys not bicker?" he's trying to be gentle about it, but stern. We both nod shamefully.

"How was Thanksgiving at Morgan's house?" the way he says this, it's almost like he's disgusted. I can't say I blame him.

"It was fine," I feel awkward even talking about it, though nothing happened. "Nothing happened. He slept in his old room, I slept on the couch."

"Okay." he nods, looking at the pile of potato skin stacked high on the tablecloth.

"You don't believe me?" I accuse. I peel the potato harder, until the blade is sharpening and cutting into areas that isn't even the skin.

"I didn't say that," he shakes his head. He's lying. I want to hit him and cry, and I don't get it at all.

"I'm not like that, Will." Harder, I dig into the potatoes, until slivers of white potato start accumulating in front of me. He watches me, looking paranoid. "I'm not a slut."

"Hey, hey," he grabs my wrist and forces me to stop peeling. "Be careful."

"I'm not going to cut myself." I snap, my voice sounding shaky.

"No, the potato," he grabs the potato, the one I almost shaved entirely, and places it into the pile of shaven ones. "We actually need that part of it."

I don't want to, but I laugh. I hate it that he's making me laugh. I rub my eyelids, feeling heavy with emotion.

"I didn't say you were a slut, JJ." he says quietly, continuing to peel. "I never thought that about you."

"Thank you." I whisper, almost inaudibly.

"But you are falling for him," he tells me. His words startle me. I want him to take them back. "Admit it."

"I'm not." I'm so stunned that he just blurted it out so cavalierly, that it almost sounds like I'm forcing myself to say it; like it isn't the truth. I shake my head slowly, but no words come out.

"Yeah," he eyes me for a second, then looks away, because it hurts him to look at me. To see me lying. It hurts me to have him look at me, too. "Right."


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's note: **It's a long one (that's what she said)! Hope you guys enjoy it :)

* * *

Thanksgiving sped by almost absentmindedly, like it never ceased to exist at all. That Holiday in particular seemed to pass by swiftly, with hardly an acknowledgment for me, Will or Henry. Friendly casual gestures and greetings were exchanged between the BAU family, but all in all we treated each other like awkward relatives forced to get together rather than a stable, fully-functional team. December rolled in, and days seemed to collide with one another, without leaving much of a dent in anything. Trees were stripped bald, leaving them with puny branches, and the snow filled any open pathways. Roads were closed due to snowstorms and some days we were asked not to come into work at all. Will is now officially living with his brother, much to his and his brother's dismay. Henry and I were getting extra time together due to the poor weather conditions, but I knew all too well that eventually I had to return back to work, and Henry would be lacking the familiar socialization he shared with his father on a daily basis. As much as I tried to play the father-figure, there were still discussions I failed at, or conversations I couldn't keep up with. When he'd marvel at the sight of a man toying with a fishing pole on a wood boat in a sea of lake water, all I could do is nod briefly and smile when he'd look up at me in awe.

Morgan and I are also changing, like the weather and the trees. Except, instead of going forward, we're going backward. And fast. The closeness I felt we once had seemed to disappear the second he parked his car in my driveway, allowing me to leave his car and step into my empty household, where soon I would find out that my longtime boyfriend and father of my child would no longer be hanging around. Emptiness surrounded my household, filling my nights with a cold right bedside and a useless second pillow. When tree branches would bitterly clatter against my window, I'd hug my covers closer. Some nights Henry sleeps with me, when he's scared of the rushing sound of the wind slapping against my house. Sometimes the wind gets so loud it feels like it could tear my house to bits, like a tornado thrashing through. And one night, when Henry was off down the street at a new friend's house, I was sitting lonesomely at my kitchen, sipping hot chocolate from a packet I rediscovered buried underneath unopened oatmeal containers and raisins in the cabinet underneath the counter. I found myself thinking about Morgan, though it surprised me; though it shouldn't have. I wondered what made his skin so rough, and yet my skin is so soft. Is it that he doesn't lather on lotion daily? Or is just every man's skin is so much harsher than women's? I don't recall Will's ever feeling so hoarse when my hands would touch him. Typically, I wondered if the rest of his skin feels so dry. And then I wondered why, for some reason I can't put together, even still, I longed for the roughness of the skin on his arms wrapping around my waist, holding me perfectly still, making it impossible for me to move an inch.

Since that one thought, I've found myself wondering about Morgan often. What is he doing now? Is he dating anyone? Why have we barely spoken? Did we even talk at all during the case in Seattle? Does he think about me? Wickedly, I think about if Will was right. Maybe I am falling for him. But a burst of something lonely and emotional erupts inside of me, and I can't place it together enough to have it make sense. Am I afraid of loving someone again and just simply falling out of it like what happened with Will? Am I afraid of losing the closeness I feel we developed overtime? I think it's most likely that. We created something special, at the cost of Reid's life. With the loss of one life, another one was born; the life of moments Morgan and I shared, cramped in his heated car, chasing down a criminal, together with the help of barely another soul. Something grew as the miles ticked on, as we shared a Thanksgiving turkey with his mom. Then, upon the arrival of us returning to Quantico, we drifted apart. And what scares me the most, is that I think it's breaking my heart.

I wonder why he hasn't called, just to see how I am. But then again, neither have I. Is he scared to pick up the phone too? Scared to feel the silence seep through both of our phones, and into our homes? Scared to have both of us feel that what we felt has since wore off and now we're just left with the memory? Would it hurt him as bad as I think that'll hurt me? Sitting here now, my mind feels too terrified to dare pick up the phone. I think about doing it. But it's useless. Because even though I know I could, I know just as well that I won't.

* * *

Christmas is inching in closer and closer, sealing me in, leaving me reeling with emotions and a bout of loneliness and depression that I must be sucking the fun out of it for Henry. But with the surge of energy that most two-year-olds have, he comes racing into the living room, clutching a piece of paper full of his recent doodles.

"I made this for daddy," he informs me, proudly. He puts the yellow piece of paper down in front of me, and watches my eyes carefully as I inspect it. Three fishes clutter the page, and scribbly lines have formed underneath the fish; I am assuming it is supposed to resemble the waves of water. It does. When I don't say anything, because I'm obliviously lost in the sight of my son's creativity, he asks me, "Do you like it?"

Looking down at his beaming, excited eyes, I say honestly, "I love it," I hand him the paper gently. "And daddy will too." I stroke a piece of hair and tuck it behind his ear, but it defiantly pokes out again. Henry scampers off, and for the hundredth time I call out, "Be careful! No running!"

Now it's come time to think about decking the halls, as much as I'd rather swoop by Christmas. Just because there's been twists and turns in my life, I shouldn't have to have Henry lose out. Just as easily, I could drop him off at Will's Christmas Eve and pick him up later on Christmas day, but something about that seems cruel; shouldn't I be with my son on Christmas? Shouldn't he be with his mother?

I walk over, lazy and dejected, plucking through last year's ornaments that I stuffed in a cardboard box in the broom closet after Holiday season. The ornaments clink together, and soon my entire living room floor has turned into a lawn of reds and greens and Santa decorations. I stare at each decoration and heave a sigh, exasperated even imagining the amount of effort that's going to go into putting all of this up without an extra pair of hands. I slump on the floor amongst the heap, and spin an ornament in my hands. It catches light and glistens, like it's trying to give me a burst of Holiday spirit. No such luck.

It's the weekend now. Christmas is just two days away. Henry is changing his mind on what he wants once he sees commercial ads on TV for new toys. Every morning it's the same: excitedly, he finds me and says, "Mommy, I want this now." all decisively with the same want and need that he experienced with the last four choices. I decided to get him all four; I feel with everything I've put him through, with the distancing myself during the Reid situation, and now with having Will relocated, he deserves something to look forward to, to lose himself in for a little while.

After dropping off Henry at school, I make a pit stop on the way to the grocery store, to continue my errands. I'd made an appointment earlier in the week to visit a therapist. Today is the soonest of dates that Dr. Gomez could see me. Walking through the door, my first immediate thought is that the smell reminds me so much of a dentists' office. Same carpeted floors, bland walls. I walk up to the desk, releasing a sigh, and asking for Dr. Gomez. The receptionist meets my eyes only momentarily, then picks up the telephone, dials in a number and raises her index finger.

"Dr. Gomez," she speaks very softly into the phone. "A patient just arrived." she lays the telephone on her shoulder, and squints her face at me as she asks for my name.

"Jennifer," I pause, stuttering for some reason. "Jennifer Jareau." She picks the phone up, types into the computer, finds my name, then speaks into the phone again.

"Jennifer Jareau, she made an appointment last Monday. Should I send her in now?" There's a long pause. I look at the frames lining on the wall. Flowers, children laughing and playing, pamphlets on the counter. It's like they're trying to make this place less depressing. The sound of her hanging the phone up brings me back into the realm of the conversation.

"He'll see you in a moment," she points to the chairs in the corner. "Can you wait over there?"

I nod, smile and take a seat. I've only gone to therapy twice, and both times I was forced into going. Once, when my sister committed suicide, and my school demanded I see a therapist once a week in order to ensure I was healthy mentally. At the time, I found it condescending and offensive, like my sister ending her life would make me so tragically spiral out of control to the point I brought a gun to school or something. The way everyone looked at me, as I crossed the hallways, my head hung low, counting the steps until I made it to the principal's office, I'll never forget. It was like I was being held up for ridicule, without anyone saying anything. The way the principal played with his hands and twisted his wedding band as he said to me, "We think it'd be best for you to start seeing someone." When I asked what he meant, he added, "Someone professionally." And then, in my young naive mind, I thought he was saying to me, "You're going to be like your sister. You're not right."

The second time was when Reid died. Strauss, forcefully shoving me into it like back then, enforced that we all saw a psychiatrist before returning to our duty. The doctor said we were all fine mentally, although emotionally damaged, but convinced Strauss we were not in any state of mind that our decisions might be untrustworthy. And even then, I felt suffocated. But I assumed visiting a therapist on my own free will would rid myself of the suffocating feeling. Only one way to know.

"Ms. Jareau," A man with a silver pin on his black sweater calls to me. "I'm Dr. Gomez." he extends his hand. I shake it, standing up. "I can see you now."

I follow him down the bleak hallway, and into his office. His office is more spacious than the ones I'd visited in the past, and I am thankful, since the larger size makes me feel less cramped and claustrophobic. I take a seat on the brown leather sofa, and relax. I make sure to sit upright, and not lie down like those people you see on TV, crying to their therapist. I trick myself into thinking this isn't a mental evaluation, but instead just someone to talk to.

Dr. Gomez sits down and keeps his hands on his lap. "Jennifer," he says my name, then pauses. "Can I call you by your first name?"

I nod. "Yeah, sure."

"Good. You can call me by my first as well," reaching forward, he sips his water. "I'm David."

I nod slowly. "Hello, David." A smile creeps up on his lips, and he watches me for a second, like he's giving me an X-ray. I look away. He puts his paper cup down on a coaster and sits back.

"Well, Jennifer, what would you like to talk about first?" I inhale sharply, and shake my head.

"I'm not sure."

He pauses. "Well, where would you like to begin?"

"How do you normally begin these things?" I feel like that naive little child again, meeting her first therapist, being examined, ridiculed.

"However the patient prefers," I wince at the word 'patient'. He catches this and corrects himself, "You know what? Let's not call you that. Let's say, you're a friend. Better?"

"Much better." I say, smiling weakly. "It's not that I'm against psychiatrists or anything, I'm just awkward with them."

"Understandable." he nods, and grabs a pen and a pad of paper. He starts writing. "We can go at any speed you like, Jennifer."

I decide I have to start talking now or I'll never get on with it. Besides, I'm paying for an hour visit. And it isn't cheap. "Well, I've had some recent changes. Drastic ones." Pausing, I inhale another deep breath. "I lost a good friend of mine, who also worked with me, a month and a half ago. I guess that's when problems started to occur."

"Mhm," he nods, writes stuff down again, then looks up. "How did that make you feel? Losing your friend?"

I raise my hand. "Look, Dr., with all due respect, I visited a therapist after his death, and he evaluated me just the same. Can we not have this be so clinical?"

He looks surprised for a second, then he softens. "Sorry," he smiles. "I guess what I'm asking is, how did you react to that?"

"I kind of separated myself from my family. My son and my boyfriend - or, ex-boyfriend I should say now - mostly," I hadn't really admitted that to anyone before.

"It's not uncommon for people to distance themselves from those their closest to in a time of grief and despair," he tells me. "Everyone handles grief differently. Your way of handling it is perfectly natural, expected even."

I nod hesitantly. Then I wait. Is that really all he has to say on that? That felt like such a big load to get off of my chest.

"I noticed you said 'ex-boyfriend', I'm assuming you guys have parted ways since your friend's death?"

I nod, with shame. "Yeah, we broke up a month ago. We see each other now and then when my son, Henry, visits him, but we have barely spoken to each other."

"How are you taking that?"

"Surprisingly well. My relationship with Will was kind of fading a while before Reid's death. I think the loss of Reid and the stress of it all just severed it entirely," I pause, twitch in my seat, because I can't seem to get comfortable. "Well, I think Morgan helped with that."

He squints at me. "Morgan? Morgan is...?"

"Another friend of mine. A guy who also works with me in the field."

"Ah." he writes again. "A good friend, you'd say?"

"Yeah, he's a good friend," I scratch the back of my neck, feeling extremely overexposed. "I mean, he wasn't as good of a friend of mine before Reid's death, but now he's one of the people I'm closest to. I think Reid's death brought us closer, since we took it the hardest."

"It's also not uncommon for people to bond together over the mutual loss of a close friend or relative. It can definitely bring people closer, it's been known to happen." Twirling his pen casually, he asks me, "Would you say your romantically involved with this man?"

I shake my head rapidly. "No! We haven't even, no, just no. It wouldn't work. Never."

He grins knowingly, like he can read right through me. "That was a pretty quick response there," he starts writing, and now I'm more curous than ever what he's putting on that piece of paper.

"Because it's absurd to naturally assume that a man and a woman, who are good friends, have to be romantically involved."

"I'm not saying a man and a woman can't be friends," he stops writing to look at me. "But more often than not, when a man and a woman become connected in a friendship, one of those involved in the friendship, whether it be the man or the woman, start discovering intimate feelings towards their friend, even if it's just a crush that fades with time."

"So, you're saying, if I was developing feelings for Morgan, that it's just a crush?" I turn in my seat and lean forward, interested. "That it'll fade with time?"

"It's likely," I feel relief overcome me. "Especially if you two are just bonding over the loss of your friend. Right now, you're each other's outlets. Give it time. As time passes, the loss of your friend will become less apparent in your lives, and you'll start moving on. And along with that, chances are, you'll move on from Morgan, too."

At first I was relieved. Now I'm nervous. I can't decide what I want. I think beginning a relationship with Morgan seems risky; more stress than it's worth. But when I think about how I felt when he'd hold me and console me, or when we'd be laughing together, I think about how I can't remember ever feeling that way with any other person. I don't tell David this.

"Have you been seeing Morgan lately?" he asks me. "Outside of work, that is."

"Actually, no. I visited his mom in Chicago at Thanksgiving, but since then, we haven't really spoken much. It's like how it used to be, before Reid's death. I'm not sure if he even knows I'm single now."

"Do you want him to know?"

"Know that I'm single?"

He smirks. "Yes."

"No, I don't," I get this uncomfortable hot feeling again, like I'm embarrassed or flushed. "That shouldn't matter."

"I didn't mention it, you did."

"I was just _saying_," I retort. "That we have spoken so little that I'm not sure he even knows Will left."

He nods his head very slowly, considering something. Then he writes again. "Ah." he mumbles, like he just discovered something important, something I completely missed. "How close have you gotten with this man, Jennifer? Intimately, I mean."

"Intimately?" I widen my eyes, and they feel like they're bulging from their sockets. "Not at all."

"I don't mean just physical intimacy-"

"Which there has been none." I clarify.

He nods, grins, then continues. "-I mean emotional intimacy. Have you had intimate, private conversations with this man?"

"You could say that," I nod slowly, thinking it through, processing it. "He has with me. I guess I have, too."

"What about feelings? Have you ever felt something when he'd talk to you? Or when he'd hug you, perhaps?"

Yes. I pause. "I guess, maybe a little."

"Something spark inside of you that just said, 'He's the one'?"

I snort loudly. "Wow, that's incredibly cheesy." I laugh.

"Just go with it." he insists, smiling too.

"I don't know." I contain my laughter, but am still smiling.

He writes again. "That's a yes."

* * *

Later on in the evening, I start sorting through things back at my house. I finally open my closet doors, without the intent of picking out something to wear, but rather to bury deeper and haul out the old dusty shoe boxes. One by one, they pile up on my bed. I sit Indian style on my bed, opening an Adidas shoebox top carefully. Dust poofs out, and I fan the air until it clears, then I begin sorting through the collection of stuff that I've kept hidden; it wasn't on purpose, that it stayed stealthily stored out of reach to the naked eye, it just happened that way. At each photo I pass, I visit a memory in time, that I was pretty certain I'd forgotten along the way. Their not sorted by date, since my age ranges from three years old to seventeen, to even when I'm working at the BAU. Photos of me and my high school soccer buddies feel distant in my hands, like it's a whole other lifetime, like I'm seeing these photos of a totally different person, maybe someone I briefly met long ago. She's blond, like I am today, and she has the same color eyes as mine, same natural curved arch in her brows, same straight smile, but there's something within her I don't recognize at all. In fact, I don't remember ever registering that kind of emotion. Simultaneously, I line up photo after photo on my bed, revisiting my past. In my imagination, I'm on the soccer field, kicking it, making the goal. Girls gather around, slap me on the back, hug me tightly, while I do a cocky dance in celebration. I wink at the boys in the bleachers, who are arrogantly slumped over, afraid that the women's soccer team might actually be better than the men's.

In each passing photo, I see me. Or, a girl that looks like me. But still, the harder I strain my eyes to look, something always looks distorted; something has changed. I can't place it, but I know it's not a superficial distortion; no, it's something deeper. The deeper I get into the pile, I realize that my sister isn't any of these photos. A memory gets dug up just then and I recall it, becoming overwhelmed with guilt so heavy I think it's hard to sit up any longer. The morning when we discovered her body, I felt such anger I couldn't hide it very well. I grumbled my way around the house, I bitched and complained at school, and when I saw the therapist, I seemed to withhold such hatred for him before I even knew his name; before we even shook hands. Most of all, I hated her. For taking her life. For leaving me with just a necklace. I broke the chain around my neck and thankfully, tossed it into my drawer instead of in the trash, amongst the photographs of her. I close my eyes, as they start to water, as I think back so far my brain aches at the strain.

I see myself, clutching a photograph, and holding a cigarette lighter up to it. As soon as I demand it to with the sharpness of my thumb, a flame flickers. I watched the flame for a little while, threatening the photograph's life. I burnt the corner, and pieces of ash trickled to the pavement, as did my tears. I couldn't do it. I couldn't see my sister go a second time. I felt, somehow, throwing the photographs away wasn't getting rid of her, just getting her out of eyesight.

Looking back now, I'd give anything to have them back. I'd give anything to be staring at her beaming smile, back when she was content; but now, all I've got is past happiness and high school friendships and young love that never lasted. Bitter, I heave the photos into a lazy pile and am just about to toss them all on top of each other, back into the old shoebox, when I see a photo with just the top half peeking out, with Hotch and Prentiss smiling. I pull it out from beneath the others, and hold it closely.

It's the whole team, scrunching closely together. Hotch leaning forward, Prentiss beside Hotch, Morgan leaning deep, me sitting down beside Morgan, Reid sitting beside me, Garcia leaning over Reid, Rossi standing above me and Reid. Our smiles are large (even Hotch's) and our face expressions look real. I look long and hard at Reid. His smile as bright as the moon on a starless night, and it's the first time I remember looking at him since he died. Even when I watched the video he left us, I wasn't looking at him. I was scared then; I'm not now.

I reach over; over the piles of photos spilled, over my pillows and to the cordless phone on my nightstand. Without thinking, without hesitation, I dial Morgan.

"Hello?" Morgan answers, with the distant sound of fumbling.

"Hey, are you busy?" I say, almost breathlessly. I'm so caught up in my mission of reliving my past, I think I'd forgotten to breathe.

There's a long pause dragged out. "No, not really..." he seems unsure, like it's a difficult thing to say. "How come? You alright?"

I shake my head, with the beat of my thoughts. "No, I mean, yeah, I'm fine," I want to tell him I saw a therapist today. I want to tell him that I'm staring at Reid's face. I want to tell him about my sister, how I'm missing her; how I know she'd have been an amazing aunt to my son; how I want him to hold me, just for tonight. Maybe for even longer. The silence remains the same, just slight static over the phone, because I can't get the words out as easily as I had earlier with the doctor. "I just thought we should talk."

"Oh, okay." I'm not sure how to take his words; he's saying them in a distant, cold way. Maybe it's not intentional. "What's up?"

I pause, trying not to take offense. "_'What's up_?'" I repeat, sounding on the verge of hysteria. We haven't spoken, _really_ spoken, in days. That's all I get? "Well, let's see," I sound cocky for some reason. Too late; I took offense. "Will and I broke up, we-"

"Whoa, whoa, you guys did?" Suddenly he's brought to life, brought back into reality, like I've just woken him up for a dreary nap. "When? Why didn't you-" he cuts himself off, then exhales.

"Why didn't I...?"

"Never mind," he decides. "Are you okay?"

"No, wait, why didn't I, what?" I prod. "Why didn't I tell you?"

"Well, yeah, I mean, you didn't tell anyone."

That's true. But so what? Hotch didn't walk in and announce his divorce; people just don't do that. "No, I didn't." I say, sighing.

"I asked, are you okay?"

"That's why I called you." Holding the photo still, I meet Reid's eyes. Then I meet Morgan's photographic ones. "I'm okay, yes, but I think..." Staring at Reid harder, it's like he's telling me what to do. I think I see a flicker of a wink in his eye, but I know it's my imagination. "I think we should call Diana. Together."

He doesn't hesitate. "I'll come over."


	8. Chapter Eight

**Author's note: **It was fun to write some juicy stuff in this story for once ;). The type of juiciness Wrongfully Accused was missing. Hope you guys like it! Let me know what you think!

* * *

I stand pacing, back and forth, practically doing it unconsciously. I've traced the steps on my wooden floor so many times I'm leaving thin streaks. I'm not sure if they're going to be permanent or not. Eventually I convince myself to sit my butt down, because pacing is getting me nowhere. I'm not sure why the thought of Morgan coming over seems like such a big deal. I mean really, after all we went through with digging up dirt on Michael, you'd assume we are just about comfortable doing anything with each other. But my palms feel clammy, and no matter how many times I repeatedly wipe them on my jeans, the wetness reappears. I hear him knock. I stand in front of the mirror; push my hair over on one side, then the other, then do it all over again. Then I shake my hair out like you tousle a dog's coat, and walk to the front door, adjusting and readjusting my gray cardigan. All the while, I'm considering something: is my black v-neck shirt underneath too exposing? Should I have changed? Does my hair look okay?

I open the door, and there's Morgan, smelling clean and fresh, like he'd just showered, in his leather jacket and beat-around boots, leaning against the door frame so effortlessly. I keep tucking my hair behind my ears, because it's an awkward habit of mine. "Thanks for coming." I say instead of a greeting, and step aside so he can come in. He stands at the doormat, stomps loudly until the snowflakes hugging his boots dust off, and then walks inside. He starts peeling off his jacket, and with remorse, I happen to notice the way his muscles harden as he stretches his arms backward.

I take his jacket from his hands. "I can take this," I say, walking toward the wooden hanger.

"Thanks." he says, smiling pleasantly. As I'm hanging it up, he watches me, standing against the back of the sofa, like he needs my permission before he sits down.

"You can sit," I tell him.

"I know." he nods dully, still staring.

I readjust my sweater, pulling it over my cleavage, like my shirt is transparent. "Are you hungry? I didn't make anything." I say, sitting down on the sofa. I'm hoping that if I sit, he'll sit, to be friendly. I toss the throw pillows on the recliner beside the couch, and sit as close to the arm rest as possible, so he's not feeling sandwiched next to me. He sits down, taking the hint.

"I'm not hungry." he insists, shaking his head. For a minute, we're just sitting here dumbly, like we're both feeling just as out-of-place. He dusts off the knee of his pants, I keep covering my chest with my sweater. He looks up, stares intently at the flickering candle sitting on the bookshelf. I'm not sure what he's looking at; I think it's the candle, but I can't be too sure.

"It's an expensive one." I comment, because what else should I say? He turns to me and looks at me funny, like I just offered up sex. I give him an equally as inquisitive stare. "The candle. Prentiss gave that to me when she visited France."

He nods, but he doesn't understand, I don't think. "Oh, yeah," he shakes his head absentmindedly. "That's nice."

I raise my eyebrows. "Unless you weren't looking at the candle," I piece together.

"I wasn't," he says, then grins. "But it's nice anyway."

I feel a smirk appear, because the corners of my lips are twitching without my consent. "What _were_ you looking at?" I ask him, fighting a smile.

"I was looking at the photo," he tells me, pointing to it with his thumb over his shoulder. "The one with-

"Me and Will." I finish for him. I nod slowly, then start peeling the light pink polish off of my fingers. "Yeah, it's old. I forgot to take it down."

He shakes his head, looking down. "You don't have to explain," he says. But I can't stop talking about it; it's like I need him to know this.

"And besides, what was I going to do? Just take it down the second he left? That seemed crazy to me," I babble on. I won't look him in the eyes. Which is just as well, because he seems pretty deadset on staring down the floor. "Doesn't it seem cold to do that? He's still the father of my kid."

He shakes his head again, very slowly; two slow, strained shakes left and right. "I never said you should have done that," he says, very quietly, like I'd just knocked the wind out of him. "I think it fits up there."

I sit back on the couch, lost for words. Silence drowns the room entirely, like we're in a fish tank and it's almost meeting the brim. I expect it to come spilling over the top. I watch him; hunched over, elbows to knees, hands together, face down. I get the urge to touch the one spot on his shoulder that juts out, the only part of him that seems bony and not full of muscle. The part of his body that I could touch, then trace down to his back, underneath the collar of his shirt, where his back is strong and toned. And for one flash of a second, I imagine myself scraping my nails down his back, leaving thin lines. I blink out of my imagination, and scramble to keep from him looking at me and reading my thoughts.

I face him; I can see he's miles away. He's not curious what I'm thinking about, or thinking about me at all. He's in another world right now, maybe not even sure he's at my house. I touch his arm. "You're quiet."

He blinks back into reality, and looks down at my small hand on his arm, that can barely wrap both of my hands around it. "I'm sorry," he rubs his eyes like he just woke up. "Shit. I'm sorry."

I remove my hand, afraid the clamminess will resurface. "It's okay." I mumble.

"No, I'm acting so weird, and it's not you," he turns to look at me, to reassure me. "It has nothing to do with you. I don't know why I'm even angry about it. God, I'm such a hypocrite."

Angry? Hypocrite? I can't put together those words in a sentence that would make sense to me, and it takes a couple of seconds of failed decoding before I stammer out, "What?"

"Just forget it." he shakes his head, hard this time. "You said you wanted to call Diana anyway, right? Isn't that why I came over?" he meets my eyes, but they look cold and angry and upset with me. "Right? Isn't that why you wanted me here?"

I can't talk, like I'm being put under interrogation. I feel like if I say one thing, a bomb will go off. If I say another, the world freezes and time stops and I did something wrong. I can't figure out what I'd done to make him so angry. "Angry?" I say the word, like it's something I just came up with and it's unknown to any language ever discovered. "Why are you angry? Why are you angry at me?"

"I didn't say I was angry at you." he says defensively.

"But you are." I say knowingly.

"Well, yeah." he decides, nodding with satisfaction, like he just decided he likes whip cream in his coffee or he likes chick flicks after all. So simple; suddenly he's a burst of honesty. And the way he decides to tell me this, it's like saying, _what are you gonna do about it?_

"Why?" I snap, clueless. "We haven't even talked to each other long enough for you to be pissed about anything."

"That's it," he says, extending his index finger to further his point. "We haven't talked. I thought we had fun."

"What?" I'm so lost, my brain starts to ache. "We had fun where?"

He sighs through his nose, like I'm being the difficult one here. "At my mom's. At Thanksgiving. I thought," he lowers his tone into this soft, secretive voice. "I thought you had a good time with me."

"I did!" I exclaim, shocked he's even making me clarify that statement. "I told you I had fun, why would I lie?"

"So why didn't you call? Or talk to me?"

I feel like I'm being grilled, and instead of acting like a mature adult, I use the ole tactic that kids usually did when they got into trouble: I point the finger back at him. "Why didn't you?" I say, raising my voice accusingly. "You could have."

"I know," he sighs again, and guilt fills his face. "That's why I said I'm a hypocrite."

I don't know what to respond with that sounds remotely like backlash, or anything that will make me win the fight, so I say, "Good."

He leans forward - so close I can smell the lingering taste of Tim Hortons black coffee on him - and he puts his hand on my knee. My body tenses, and I find myself leaning forward, even though I feel frozen in my seat. I think I'm scared, scared that if I go this next step with him, and I feel his lips pressed against mine, only to find out that I'm pursuing it, going deeper and deeper into it with him, that things will change. Would he still be angry? I can't stop myself from wanting him, and I can't stop myself from leaning closer and closer, until I can almost taste the bitterness of the coffee and I'm inhaling his cologne like I'm snuffing it. His hand on my knee doesn't go any further, just lays there, like dead weight. I instinctively close my eyes, though his don't seem to.

His breath relaxes hot on my lips as he talks. "We should just call Diana," he whispers to me. He gives my knee one gentle, easy pat, as if to say, _It's okay. Good dog. _"Alright?"

My eyes snap open, like buttons furiously popping off of a coat, and I shove myself backward. He yanks his hand away, thinking he startled me. I scramble to find the cordless phone around my house, to keep my cheeks from burning too hot.

"Do you need my help?" he asks me, twisting in his seat to look for the phone with his eyes.

I haphazardly scatter room for room, trying to find it, embarrassed, flushed. "No, no, I'll find it." I say to him quickly, my feet feeling hot and tired, moving too fast. He stands up, stretches, and a peek of skin comes out from under his shirt. Dark, toned flesh looking strong and muscled, with a stream of dark hair going down and down, into his black jeans. I drop the magazines, staring. I wonder if he knows. He brings his arms back to his side, leans down and scoops up an object. Then he holds it up, eying me, disguising a laugh. "Found it."

I ignore his cocky grin and grab it from his hands, collecting myself on the couch. I don't even bother fixing my sweater over my cleavage, or even pulling up my shirt, even though it feels like it's lowered itself since I'd sat down. I don't care. He can tease me with him flexing and stretching, I can make him sweat it out, too. I meet the number buttons on my phone.

"You can't call her telepathically." he informs me, smirking, like he's enjoying himself.

"I know that." I snap. But still, I stare at them.

"Are you trying to?" he asks me, a hint of humor laced in his tone.

I glare at him, hard and angry, my jaw clenched. He ignores my warning sign, as he's still grinning like mad. "Would you like me to call?" he offers.

"I'm capable," I tell him, sighing. But I don't think I am. What do I say? I haven't spoken to Diana since everything. I didn't even call and see how she was taking the news that Reid hadn't ended his life at his own hands, but rather was murdered, like we'd all assumed. I naturally predicted she'd taken it well, as any mother would; but then again, what mother takes the information that her son lost his life, without desiring to, well?

Naturally, I start wondering why we hadn't called at all. Why it never occurred to us that we should see if she was okay, handling things alright. Now I'm more scared than ever to hear her voice. Will she be angry with me, too?

"JJ," Morgan says to me, and I force myself to look at his face. I feel embarrassed just with remembering how close we were a minute ago, how I was so sure he was going to kiss me, but I'm so paranoid about how Diana feels about me that I don't let myself look away. "I think she's okay."

"Would you be?" I croak out, feeling heavy with guilt.

He seems stumped on this and sighs, sitting back, like I just handed him over a chunk of my guilt and now he's bathing in it. "Not calling would be worse." he decides.

"Then you do it," I tell him, placing the phone on his lap. He looks down, surprised. "You offered to do it, anyway."

He rests his hand on it. "Yeah, but," he picks it up, but doesn't actually do anything with it productively. "I said that..."

"And?" I feel a cocky grin on my face too. "And what, you're scared?"

He doesn't answer me, but his cheeks suck in as he inhales, then fill with air as he releases it.

"Oh, wait," I touch his hand, that's covering the phone. "Are you trying to call her telepathically?"

He glares at me, but I can see he's trying hard not to smile. "You're really something, you know that?" I shrug innocently.

"Just call her." I say, leaning forward and pulling a chip out of the bag laying on the coffee table. I crunch loudly; filling myself with carbs makes me feel a little bit better almost instantly. He leans forward and grabs a chip too.

"Easy for you to say," he says, popping it into his mouth. "You don't have to do it now."

I shrug again, smirking. He's got a point.

"What do I say?" he asks me.

"I don't know. That's why I don't want to do it."

He sighs, places the phone on the coffee table, since we've both silently established that neither one of us is going to call. He touches my arm, and I look his way.

"I'm not mad at you," he informs me. "I never was, actually. I mean, I was confused. And yeah, I was angry I guess, but not angry like I was mad." I stare at him funny. "I'm not making sense, I know. I guess I just thought we'd gotten closer, all things considered."

"We have," I decide, nodding. "I don't know why we didn't talk much after Thanksgiving. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was so caught up with Will leaving and me trying to be Mother of the Year, that I just kind of went through work out of it."

He nods. "I could have called too, you're right." he says, then makes a weak smile. "I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry too." I smile back, just as sadly.

I stand up, walking to the kitchen. The chips are bland without something to dip them in, honestly. "Dip?" I call out, opening the fridge.

"Yes." he calls back.

I walk back in, placing the dip on the coffee table, spooning it out onto a plate. I can feel him staring at me, grinning like a maniac.

"Yes?" I ask, not looking up. I plop two big spoonfuls onto the plate, then close the lid until it snaps.

"I was just thinking," there's cockiness and slight embarrassment in his tone as he talks. He grabs a chip and plays with it. "Did you think I was going to kiss you back there?"

I lick the dip that got on me off of my finger, and stare at him. With every ounce of dignity I have, I force out, "No," and shake my head, almost sincerely.

His face saddens and his grin droops. "Oh," he says, then dunks the chip deep into the dip. "Right. I didn't think you did, you just closed your eyes."

"I had something in them." I lie quickly.

"Right," his smirk is resurfacing. He hides behind it as he puts his chip into his mouth. "Well I wasn't going to."

"I didn't think you were," I insist. "Ever."

"Well definitely not now," he nudges my arm and winks. "This salsa is red-hot."

I'm smirking too, and I think that maybe, we're officially flirting. Succumbing to this realization, I don't stop. "Hey, if you kissed me, the salsa wouldn't be the only thing that's red-hot."

His cheeks turn a pink color, which surprises me, since Morgan's usually a Playboy and far from shy. I like that my words have made this impact on him, and I sip my water to keep from grinning too much. He gathers himself together, recovering from his momentary forgetfulness, like he'd forgotten he has a reputation to uphold, for being notorious as a big flirt. "Yeah, red-hot for you," he says back.

I snort loudly, almost coughing up my water. "I meant because of me, doofus."

He smirks, and twists the cap on the water I brought over for him. "I know." he nods, sipping it.

The room goes silent for a second, and all that seems real to the universe is the sound of us swallowing our water and shuffling through chips in the bag like there's a wide variety of them and not all just one flavor. Suddenly I realize I'm just fingering the chips for no good reason at all, and stop. He puts down his water bottle and readjusts in his seat.

He leans forward again, almost identically as before, and puts his arm on the back of the couch. I lean more toward the arm rest, thinking he's going to try convincing me to call Diana again. But as he keeps leaning closer, I freeze.

"What are you doing?" I whisper. My eyes are falling closed, and I can't seem to force them open. I manage to, only a little, and see his eyes are closing, too.

"Shh." he hushes me softly, and leans closer until our noses brush against one another. I tilt my head. The only way I can tell he's tilting too is by the feeling of his nose moving along with mine. We stay here. For a second, we're both afraid to move. Afraid to be called out on our empty threats, that it's going to be "red-hot". Just scared, in general.

The commitment of feeling each other's kiss seems frightening to, I think, the both of us equally, and fearfully we ought to pull away and call Diana. Or he should leave. But neither of us has the strength within to do so, so we keep leaning and leaning. Until I feel his lips, warm and soft on mine. Instinctively, I kiss back. Slow and gentle, like we're easing our lips into it as much as ourselves. Eventually we find the rhythm, and I find myself falling into it like a blanket of sheets enveloping me. I find his shirt behind the darkness of my lids over my eyes, and I tug on it, craving to feel him closer, as if it were possible. He pulls me in with his hands cupping my arms, desiring me as much as I desire him. I'd always figured the emotion I felt growing for him was only on my part, but as he kisses me, so passionately and tenderly like I'm this fragile thing he's just burying himself into, I realize he feels the same.

It seems so innocent. Like a first kiss should feel, or how my real first kiss should have felt. Like there's endless possibilities and no harm in the world; like there's an embrace surrounding us that's shielding us from any other failed relationships. I feel the warmth and soft wetness of his tongue slide into my mouth, tentatively, like he needs my permission before he goes in any further.

My tongue reaches his, and he fills my mouth whole, pulling me closer, inching my chest against his. His body relaxes against mine, until I flick my tongue in his mouth, then he tenses. He eases himself away slowly, until our lips fall apart from each other and he relaxes his forehead against mine, breathing heavily. I look down, trying to catch my breath also.

"You weren't kidding." he pants. "You weren't-"

I don't let him finish. I kiss him again; pulling him in closer. I can't seem to get a hold of myself. The guilt for Diana drifts away the harder I kiss him, and everything around me seems to melt like the world is dripping, remaining colorless and we're the only thing bright in the world. I nudge him until he lays flat on my couch, and our belt buckles are wrestling with each other. My body feels so small, my hips resting on his. He puts his hands on my hips, forcing me still. He lets go of my mouth and as I rise up, looking at him, down below me, he's staring, panting.

"I never thought," he exhales one good long breath. "I didn't think this was going to happen when I came over tonight."

"I didn't either." I breathe out.

"But," he tucks hair behind my ear, and I just about scream as his fingertips draw a thin line down my neck, onto my collarbone, almost touching my cleavage, until he flicks it away. "I'm glad." he breathes out, then laughs. "I'm so glad."

I laugh at us too, and the irony. I bet Reid would get a kick out of it. I lower down, his body relaxed beneath mine, and kiss him, like I'd never kissed anyone; I want to make a good impression. I want to make it worth his while.

"Jage," he says, releasing my mouth long enough for him to say my commonly used nickname, used most popularly by Garcia. He envelopes my mouth with his the second he gets it out.

"Hm?" I ask, my mouth too busy to talk.

"We have to stop." Even though he says this, we both don't seem to back off any.

"Hmmm?" I stretch it out longer this time, sounding whinier, disapproving.

"No, really," he manages out before we kiss again. I'm taking his words like a grain of salt. He finally nudges me off long enough to speak a full sentence. "We have to stop." he says, more sternly and demanding.

"Why?" I say, still whining. I press my body harder against his as I trace my tongue on his neck. His body tightens and he shudders, holding his breath and clenching his jaw. I take that as a good sign, so I flick my tongue and suck on his neck, burying my lips into the crease in his collarbone, using my fingers to pull the collar of his shirt down, to leave a trail of kisses on his chest.

He can barely talk, but he sputters out, "I'm getting carried away."

"So?" I mutter subconsciously, my tongue sliding back up to his neck, teasing his earlobe.

"And you want that?" he asks breathlessly. I pause; I stop nibbling on his ear. I'm not sure what I want. I'm assuming he means by "getting carried away", that physically he's losing control, slowly he's swaying to the side of no control, where he'll start going crazy, ripping my clothes off, wanting to make love to me like an animal in heat. I climb off of him slowly, afraid, tenative.

"I didn't mean to scare you off," he sits upright, and takes my hand in his, pulling me back down on the couch. "I just thought I should warn you, before you felt it for yourself." he smiles.

I smile and stroke his cheek with my thumb. "Thank you, I appreciate it," I say, smiling.

He takes my hand from his face and entwines it with his, then kisses it. "I think we should still call her," he says.

"But Derek-" I whine, using his first name for a change.

He shuts me up by saying, "It's the right thing to do."

"Can we do something else instead? Communicate with her some other way?" I plead.

"How? I doubt they let her use a computer."

"They let her get mail though, right? Reid used to write to her all the time."

He considers this, lets go of my hand and finds himself a notebook and a pen in my house. He sits down, places the notebook on my lap and hands me the pen solemnly. "Go for it."

Our eyes lock and we make a silent agreement, and I write down the honest-to-God truth, as to why we've been neglecting to speak to her, with the same courage it took to not pull away from the safety of Morgan's embrace minutes ago. And look where that got me. I'm hoping for the same positive results out of Diana.


	9. Chapter Nine

**Author's Note: **For future reference, the paragraphs that are in italic writing is paragraphs I took from the Wrongfully Accused epilogue, in case there is any new readers to this story and hadn't read WA. This chapter is a shorter one, compared to the ones I've been posting lately. Sorry guys.

* * *

We wrote the letter. The letter that would either profoundly change Diana's respect for us or diminish it. The blue Bic pen stayed between my two fingers as I tried my hardest to write down my sincerest apologies, but in the end, it still didn't get even a fraction of how guilty I felt. The pen felt dirty in my hands, like it was accusing me of putting her on the back-burner. Morgan stayed by my side through the writing process, occasionally squeezing my shoulders or stroking my arm. It helped; but I think both of us felt like we neglected her.

Everyday we anxiously waited for a response of some kind. Something that told us that she forgave us for how cruel we were to her. How inconsiderate we were for being too cowardly to be there for her. On the fifth night of waiting for her reply, Morgan and I drove to a little patch in the middle of nowhere. It's a place that kind of follows the park, but isn't actually a part of the park. It's kind of woodsy there, and given my lifelong fear of that, I've never really gone there very much; at least not much past the grassy open-field area. But that night, Morgan and I drove there. We pulled far onto the grassy field and parked right there, underneath the burning moonlight and hazy night sky. Dark clouds were visible, but the stars were not. I remember quietly crawling out of the car, freezing, and climbing on the hood of his car with him. The buttons on the back pockets of my jeans skid on the paint job on the hood, but Morgan didn't comment on it. Guess his mind was elsewhere.

I rubbed my legs, trying to bring them back to life. Morgan lay back, oblivious to the bone-chilling weather. Tucking his arm underneath his head, he inched me closer with his other one. "Are you cold?" he whispered into my neck, burying his face in my hair. As I exhaled, puffs of my breath filled the air in small shapeless white clouds; I didn't really have to give him an answer, since that was enough of an indication. His breath felt hot in the crook of my neck.

I rested my face against his, his skin turning from cold to warm in seconds. "I'm alright." I said instead, even though my body was turning numb.

"Have you heard anything?" he asked me. This was a routine of ours by then. Everyday we'd ask each other, "You hear anything?" even though we both knew we didn't, because if we had, we would've called or told each other immediately, not giving one another enough time to even ask.

I shook my head sadly, feeling heavily burdened with having to be the one to tell him - again - that, no, I hadn't heard anything.

He groaned disapprovingly. I shifted. I recall feeling a very abnormal sensation for me; it was almost like a craving, like how you crave food when you're hungry or liquid when you're thirsty. I wanted Morgan closer to me, even though he hardly could have gotten any closer without physically attaching us together. His arm swooped around me, his face lost in my heaps of blond hair, his breath relaxing on my skin, still wasn't enough. I still didn't feel there. I was afraid I was losing it. I put my head back on the cold hood and pretended that I wasn't acknowledging the burning of the cold seeping through my hair and taunting my scalp.

I hated bringing up death. But it appeared in the back of my mind, like a demon or a shadow appearing, and I couldn't shake it all of a sudden. The soles of my shoes squeaked when I slid them on the hood, and the sound startled me, like the demon was escaping my brain. "You ever think about dying?" I blurted out.

He tensed. He heaved a hard sigh into my neck, then lifted his face. "Why?" he tilted his head, examining me. "Do you?"

"I asked you first," I commented, childlike.

He shrugged and relaxed the arm that laid on my shoulder, losing it's tension. I sighed, my shoulder's losing the same pressure. I watched as his breath faded into the night air. "Not often," he scratched the back of his neck. "But sometimes, yeah. Who doesn't?"

I sat forward. "I'm not saying it's a negative thing," I told him. "Isn't it better going through life fully aware you could die at any second?"

He snorted. "Is it?" he deadpanned. I drew back hesitantly. "Or is it better to spend your life thinking you could survive anything?"

I remember hearing a saying similar to that, but at that time, I couldn't think of it. Now I know what it is, and it's as common as cable these days. It's the saying that you've heard a hundred times over, but never gets old: _Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today. _

The next thing I said was a strange thing for me to blurt out, now that I reflect back on it. I said, without reluctance, "Do you think Reid would have spent his last days happier if he had known he was going to die?"

Morgan sighed and sat back, thinking. The moon was gleaming down at us, and I saw a star make an appearance behind the trees, hiding itself. "I heard somewhere that you're never as alive as you are the minute before you die," Morgan told me. "I'm not sure if that's true or not, obviously. It's just something I've heard."

I nodded slowly, absorbing it like a sponge, feeding off of it. "Makes sense." I said.

Morgan pulled me closer, laying my face down on his chest. "You never know when it's all going to be over. Our job doesn't necessarily put us at greater risk, because we're all just running in the same race, you know?"

I nodded, feeling startled. I'm not sure if it was because I was surrounded by woods or the talk of death was freaking me out, but I felt too scared to move in his arms.

"That's why we shouldn't waste any time," he leaned down and kissed the top of my head. His voice got quieter, almost distant. "I don't want to waste any more time."

* * *

Diana did respond, after all. With a phone call.

_"It's Diana." I mouthed to him, pointing vigorously at the cell stapled to my ear. He jumped out of the car immediately, crouching to my side to press his ear to my cell phone._

_"I'm here." Morgan told her._

_"I was going through some of my things earlier after reading the letter you guys sent me, and I found something I'd pushed aside right around the time of Spencer's death," I remember her voice sounding strong and powerful coming from the phone; which was unusual, because I was used to her sounding weak and exhausted. "It's a letter from Spencer as well. One he wrote me right before his death. I was too distraught before to even notice it."_

_"What does it say?" Both Morgan and I said, our words coming out together seamlessly._

_"You guys ought to read it for yourselves. I already had it sent to your place, JJ," she sighed a sigh that sounded very pleased to me. "Thank you guys so much. I can't," she paused, then sighed heartily. "I can't say that enough."_

_A lump felt lodged in my throat, but it felt really good, strangely enough._

Hearing her say those words, in a way that almost sounded like _she_ owed _us_, made my heart ache and pull in a way that's satisfying, like right after you accomplish a good deed. Diana had indeed sent us a letter. A Reid hand-written letter. Reid had apparently found time, somehow, amongst the situation with Michael, to write his mom a letter, feeling an apology was in order; to set the record straight.

_Hey Mom. I'm so glad that you're reading this. I found some time in between Michael doing something in the other room to write this to you. He thinks it's a suicide note, blaming you for everything gone wrong in my life; since you're reading this, he apparently didn't bother checking the letter I sneakily slipped in, withdrawing the one I previously wrote. Because the one he forced me to write wasn't at all how I felt. You weren't able to be around for me like most mothers are, but you were my rock. You held it together because you had to. Because of me. I never properly thanked you for that._

_I'm not scared. I know it's too late. I know I'm already gone. But I hope I'm not gone to you, and everyone in my life. I hope you think about me when you pass by Bob Dylan records, and you think of me when you pass books about Physics Magic. (By the way, if anyone from my team is reading this: You will never know how to do it from me. You'll have to learn for yourself. It's for the experience.) I don't have enough time to thank all of you, because I kind of already did that on the video he made me film, but the one thing that was false was me wanting to die. I never blamed you, Mom, for my insecurities and my shortcomings. I never hated my life, and I never sought after revenge because of the subtle teasing my team members put me through (Hey, they were funny! And accurate!)_

_And I never, not ever, was ashamed to have you as my mother. I love you guys. I hope when you're sitting by the table on Thanksgiving, and you're saying your prayers, I'm in them. For whatever reason, I hope I cross your mind. Because I know I'm thankful for each and every one of you. And sitting here right now, writing this, I'm saying a prayer. And I'm saying to you guys: Thank You._

Holding that letter, tears welled in my eyes. Morgan's too. I pulled his hand into mine and let him cradle me gently, positioning the letter safely on the table. He held me for a while. We fell asleep on my couch, and woke up at around the time Henry finished his nap. Henry told us this by charging into the living room in his pajama bottoms and gray sweatshirt, poking me in the shin.

I rubbed my eyes, smearing my makeup that had aged on my face throughout the day. "Hey, Buddy, you're up." I said tiredly. "Are you hungry?"

He nodded. Morgan woke up from my movement and stretched, then leaned forward to kiss my neck, but stopped at the sight of Henry. Instead, he leaned forward and threatened to tickle Henry with his two fingers. Henry backed away slowly, a grin appearing on his face.

"Hey, little man, what are you doing up?" Morgan asked, in the kind of voice I can't mimic, but he only gets around children.

Henry giggled, jumping behind the coffee table. Morgan stood up; Henry was no match for Morgan's FBI-trained legs, and scooped him up, spun him around and playfully tousled him on the recliner.

"Alright," I said, walking to the kitchen. "What do you want to eat?"

"Macaroni and cheese!" Henry called. Morgan jolted his index finger up.

"Me too!" he called out.

I rolled my eyes. "You're going to have adult food with me," I told Morgan.

He made a face. "Since when is macaroni and cheese _not_ adult food?"

* * *

Now we're laying around, like we usually spend our nights when we're not working on a case. Morgan and I, plopped on my living room sofa, in front of the TV Morgan brought over from his house, claiming my old one was "too small," and Henry, again, getting to choose what we watch. Henry is starting to look sleepy, coddled between us. I stroke his hair repeatedly until his eyes close and he's breathing steady and pleasantly, followed by occasional mumbles.

Morgan peers down at him and smiles. "Should I carry him to his room?" he asks me. I look down at Henry, then smile faintly at Morgan.

"I can do it, you don't have to get up," though I know Morgan loves Henry, and now that we've been together for a couple of months (Valentine's Day is coming up) that he's been a fantastic fatherly presence, but I still feel like I don't want to weigh him down with taking care of my child just yet. I'm scared Morgan will feel closed off, tied down. I know how Morgan is. Or how he used to be.

"I don't mind," he insists, then gets up slowly enough not to startle him, then picks him up. Henry stirs a little, but Morgan manages to carry him to his bedroom without waking him up. About a minute later, he descends from the staircase and meets me back on the couch.

"Thanks," I say, smiling, laying down on his chest. "You didn't have to do that."

He smiles, and rests his arm around my stomach. He begins drawing circles on it. Round and round. I laugh, because it tickles.

"Hey, that tickles," I say, giggling too loudly for my sleeping son. "Cut it out." I remove his hand, but he squeezes it in mine.

"I was thinking about that thing you said a while back..." he begins drawing thin, round circles on my palm. I close my eyes and tuck my head into his shoulder, feeling overwhelmed by deep comfort.

"Hm?" I ask halfheartedly interested, beginning to feel tired.

"Do you still..." he slides his hand all the way up mine and slides his thicker fingers through my tinier ones. "Want a baby?"

I jolt my head up, stunned. I think I almost knocked out a tooth of his shooting up like that. "Are you serious?" I ask.

He adjusts in his seat, the arm rest suddenly looking harsh on his back. "Well, yeah," he tries to pull me closer. I give in. "Do you?"

"Morgan, we haven't even -"

"I know, I know, I know," he adds quickly, raising his hand. "I know we haven't slept together yet. I just, I was thinking about that all day today. About what you said about dying and-"

"And when did conceiving a child come into the picture?" I blurt out kind of rudely, and I don't mean it that way. I'm sure my hesitance is discouraging to him beyond my intent.

He sighs, trying not to lose his patience with me. "I was thinking about not wanting to waste any more time, and how there's so many things I want to do before I die." he lays my head on his shoulder again, and wraps me up in his arms like a blanket. "I want to be a father, I want to be a husband. I want all of that."

I don't know what to say. "Morgan..."

"Look, JJ," he turns in his seat, makes me look at me, straight in the eye. "I've had a lot of girlfriends. I've had a lot of women in my bed -"

"Okay, okay," I say, shaking my head.

He cuts me off. "-And they didn't mean that much to me, really. I never imagined a future with them, because they weren't what I wanted. But I want this. I want to come home to this. I don't want to drive home at midnight anymore and sleep alone, or live alone, or spend Christmas alone. JJ, you're it for me."

I pause. "Are you asking me to marry you?" I know that's not what I should have said, but it's all I was thinking.

He pauses too, focuses on something behind me for a second. "I can be a good father, to Henry and," he leans down, touches my stomach. "And to our baby. You know, when there's one actually in there."

I take his hand and pull it away from my stomach. "This doesn't sound..."

"Sound, what?" he's straining not to frown.

"...Crazy, to you? Not at all?" I laugh a little, a timid laugh.

He shrugs heartily. "Not at all." he pulls me in and says, "I want you to be it. I want you for the rest of my life."

I freeze.

* * *

**Author's Note: **P.S. What should JJ say? ;) Now, I'd let Morgan knock me up, but that's just because he's plain ole sexy. Ha! I'm kidding...that's illegal. But if it weren't...


	10. Chapter Ten

**Author's note: **Hate to bring in cliche gossip like it's _that _type of drama series, but I've got something in mind, obviously. Hope this chapter is enjoyable for you guys! Opinions are appreciated, and if you have any idea for JJ and Morgan's future plans, please let me know, I'll try to incorporate them. Thanks so much for reading!

* * *

His eyes burn steady on my face, relaxing there. I can see the candle that's lit behind us flicker in his eyes, and something about it intimidates me. I press back on the sofa, even though I can't go much farther; I hear a throw pillow make a soft plumping sound on the floor. I don't want to look away, because I'm scared he'll think I'm afraid; but I'm afraid if I don't look away, he'll see so deep inside of me he'll find reasons to change his mind. I stare at him, as intensely as he is me. I see a dark goatee shaped just so, to the perfect form, without a chip or a nick on his face. His skin looks so supple I want to reach out and cup it in my hands, then stroke it, like I've done before. His muscles strong and restrained in his clothes, but the tightness and strength they consume when he gathers me in his arms protectively. And then there's his eyes. The darkness of their color, but the softness that they hold. The power they can control just by looking at me a certain way; the things they can convince me to do.

I don't want to say yes because he's pretty. I don't want to say yes because it's hard to say no. I don't want to say yes because I'm not even sure what he's asking me. I shift in my seat, and the couch whines as I twist. "Are you proposing to me?" I say slowly, processing it.

He pauses, there's a lapse in time, when there's nothing between us but air, which is dead silence, and I can't seem to grasp onto any other sound in the world; the wind stands still, the rushing sound of the snowstorm even seemed to quiet itself down in anticipation, like the whole world steadied on awaiting his response. And I think, this is it, he's changed his mind. I huddle my knees to my chest and force myself to sit still, like I'm relaxed, and not like I'm terrified of his next words. I've never been more sure than right now what I have to say, faced with the reality of sheer horror upon the possibility of his indecision.

"JJ," he sits upright, patiently, and touches my knee. I hug my legs closer, until my abs ache in disapproval and my knees are rubbing my chin. "I'm not trying to scare you. I thought, I mean, I know..."

I wait for him to piece his words together. God, just say it. The anticipation is riveting, but in a bad way. It's not the good kind of anticipating. Then again, how does he feel right now? He practically proposed and I practically shut the door in his face.

He sighs and cups his face. "I'm screwing this up, God dammit, I'm so," he raises his hands and then slaps them down on his legs, deciding something, officially. "JJ, yes, I want to marry you. It sounds insane, call it whatever you choose, but I want to marry you."

My answer burns the tip of my tongue, settling there like a rocket about to shoot off, ready to explore it's boundaries. But before I allow myself to give in, to feel his arms extend and then pull me in, and before I can allow myself to feel the happiness I think I've earned, given everything, I say, "Morgan, I just want to make sure this is what you want. You're not going to get bored with me and want to be single again? There's changes you have to make."

He exhales through his nostrils impatiently, and they flare as he says, "I want this."

"You're not going to change your mind?" I ask him.

He shakes his head very slowly, taking his time. "I swear, JJ," he nudges my leg. "Come on." I think my teasing is getting to him. I think he's ready to explode just like me. I think I'm enjoying it. But the cruelty eventually hits me and I decide not to be such a bitch, and instead let myself blurt it out.

"Yes," I inhale sharply. "I'll marry you." I never really said those words before. Even when Will semi-proposed (which was never actually an official proposal; which then again, neither is this) and I semi-said yes, it didn't feel like this. I felt like I just released something off of me, like I unhooked something and am finally freed. It's a weird sensation, but a good one more importantly, and now all I want is for him to kiss me like a man who just received a Yes answer kisses his fiance.

Morgan intakes a breath that sounds like relief, then charges forward in the seat like all he can do is hold me or else he'll stop breathing, but instead slows down and reels me in slowly, patiently, drawing me closer and closer until our faces press and we kiss. He's taking his time when kissing me, but I can tell by his heavy breathing that he's excited and wants to go much harder. I appreciate his patience, because I know he's only doing it for me.

The more we kiss, the more his breathing fastens and the harder he pulls on me, yanking at the thin material of my shirt, pressing me harder against his chest. My feet feel tingly and numb underneath my butt, so I reposition and fall into his lap, my body fitting perfectly on top of his. He groans contently and nuzzles my neck, biting and nibbling on my earlobe and collarbone, his tongue grazing across it every now and then like he's stroking an easel with the tip of a brush. I'm losing my breath and every time his body presses against mine, and I can feel the hardness of his chest meeting mine, all I can focus on is the desire to tear off his shirt and feel him in my hands. But I contain myself, pulling away, despite my body's strong itching not to do so.

His cheeks are hot and his lips are a bright pink when I look at him, and there's a slight hint of perspiration beginning on his forehead. "I'm sorry, was I moving too fast?" he says frowning, apologetically.

"No, not really," when I run my fingers along my hair, I feel my forehead beginning to dampen too. I play with his hands in mine as I talk. "I was just thinking, since we'll be getting married..."

He's still attempting to catch his breath. And it's not like I hadn't noticed the rapid tightening of his jeans. Or my own body craving this; I noticed that too. I also realize that we've been dating for quite a while, and he's probably not used to going this long without getting some. It almost feels wrong to deny him of it for much longer. He waits for me to talk, but I think he already knows what I'm going to say.

"I was just thinking, that since we'll be getting married, that we should wait..." he stares at me. "To have sex..."

He sighs and rubs his forehead. "JJ, you're killing me here." he mumbles, taking my hands back in his, twisting the thin ring I have on my index finger. Back and forth, back and forth; the silver of the ring catches light, and I imagine him twisting a wedding band on my ring finger. I smile. I lay forward and rest my head on his chest, and he lowers on the couch, his heart beat speeding up every time he inhales. His heart beat fills my ears.

"We'll start planning for the wedding soon, I promise," I look up at him. "Right away, I swear. I just think it'd be more special that way."

"And what about the baby? Are we going to have one?"

I place my hand next to my face, on his chest. "Yeah, we're going to have one," I lay my chin on his chest to face him; he cranes his neck to look down. "But shouldn't we be married when we conceive it?"

"But, but," he sounds like he's whimpering, and I have to bury my face in his shirt to keep from laughing. "Don't you think we should practice before trying to conceive it? To make sure we're doing it right?"

His excuse makes me actually laugh, and I look up at him; he's smiling too. "Come on, Morgan, please?" I reach forward and kiss his neck, leading up to his ear, up higher, then lowering down. I choose a spot right below his jawline and use my tongue to tickle him. "Please?"

He closes his eyes and grunts. "This isn't helping," he says. I can tell, because his body is tightening and his abs are contracting every time I flick my tongue.

I pull away long enough to say, "This is an example of what you'll be getting on our wedding night," I hold his hand and he looks down at me. "And we'll be married. It'll be right that way."

He sighs and kisses the top of my head. "Okay," he says reluctantly, sounding displeased. "I'll...wait." he decides, sounding like he's choking down the word.

"Thank you!" I lean up and kiss his cheek, then place my hand on his stomach, raising his shirt up, running my fingertips along the trail of black hair running down a line below his belly button. He closes his eyes.

"You're a tease." he mumbles. I laugh and stop tickling him, retreating my hand back up to his chest where it's safe. He cradles me in his arms, restricting my hands. "You can't move now. You're untrustworthy."

I laugh and he keeps me still as promised, attempting to restrain my naughty hands. It's okay with me, I like it when he holds me like this; like nothing can reach me. Nothing can harm me.

* * *

The feeling of darkness surrounds the BAU now that Valentine's Day is approaching. Everyone seems to go about so slowly, progressing like they're all on slow motion. I feel like I'm the only one walking around in a normal time frame. Morgan and I drove to the BAU together today, and upon entering, it feels like we're a bright red heart balloon amongst a bunch of black dread flowers. He squeezes my arm and walks off to pour himself some coffee, and I head over to my office. Our deal naturally, although has gone undisclosed, is that we don't act couple-y when working. Not only is it unprofessional, neither one of us feel the strong need to have everyone on the team gossiping about our relationship; namely, Garcia and Prentiss.

As I walk past the small space where Morgan, Prentiss and Reid (used to) work, I notice the deathly embrace that surrounds the entire place. I feel like I'm walking in a colorless world. Then again, nothing has returned to normal since Reid died. Not me, not Morgan, not our team, and not the BAU. I touch the empty space of Reid's desk and stare at it for a while, like I expect him to appear. Prentiss comes behind me and says, "You look nice,"

I turn around, shaking my hand that touched Reid's desk off like I just put it in something sticky. "Thanks," I say casually, tugging at my light blue sweater. Every time I wear blue, Prentiss compliments me. She always says blue brings out my eyes. Maybe light blue and white should be the color pattern for my wedding? "You always say that when I wear blue."

"I always mean it, too," she smiles, bringing her lips that are drawn in red to her coffee mug. "You're here early. So is Morgan. You two feeling alright?"

I laugh, brushing my hair over my shoulders. "I'm always here early, Morgan's the late one," I shrug my shoulders, playing it cool. "He walked in the same time as me." I'm not sure if I'm allowed to say that we're engaged. I'm not sure what Prentiss would say. No one even knows we've been going together. If ever I get bored, I could blurt it out in my desperate need of attention. For now, I'll fold it up and put it in my back pocket where it's safely hidden.

"Morgan, how's he been?" she asks me, eying me almost suspiciously with her dark eyes. I look straight at the charcoal that shapes the corners. "He doesn't talk much about it."

"He's alright," I smile. "He's doing better; everyday he feels a little bit better."

"You guys have been getting close," she looks down tentatively, like she's carefully trying to ask me something without rushing into it. "Has he talked to you at all about how he's been feeling?"

"He's not much for talking about stuff like that," I say honestly, carefully tiptoeing around the accusation that we've been "getting close". I make a note in my mental notebook to discuss with Morgan what we can and cannot say at work. "You know Morgan." I roll my eyes and smile.

She doesn't seem to cheer up any; in fact, she looks nervous. "Are you two dating, though?" she lowers her tone to a hushed whisper. Before I can say anything, or express my surprise with my facial movements, she squeezes my wrist and drags me into the women's bathroom, locking me in a stall with her. She chose the biggest stall, that's for handicapped or mothers who can change their baby on the changing table.

"How do you know that?" I ask.

She gives me a look that I can only take as, _I'm a profiler, hello._ "Right, well, actually..." I instinctively go to lift my left hand, to show off my engagement ring, but since I don't have one, I don't. I stare at my ring finger with admiration, like I'm just noticing it's there. "We're engaged."

Her eyes widen to triple their normal size, and I notice something strange when looking at them; they look like big cow eyes. I laugh, because she looks funny that way. "You're engaged to him?" she says this, kind of snorting. "Since when?"

"Last night." My tone flattens at the sound of her shock, which is laced with bewilderment rather than excitement.

"I can't believe it, you guys are _engaged_." she's not saying even half of what she really thinks, I'm sure of it, but I try to force a smile and choke down the hurt.

"Yep," I say flatly.

"Oh God, see, this is why I asked you if you two are dating..." she looks down, twiddles her fingers, wipes something on her boots on the tiled floor. Anything but looking at me.

"What is it?" I say.

She looks up, sympathetically, keeping her hands clasped together. "I saw Morgan talking with this woman the other day, over lunch. You know that cafe and brunch place right around Middleton Street? Right there."

My throat feels sore, even though I haven't spoken a word. Instantly my mind traces back to Morgan, laying on the couch with me, holding me tightly, transferring his body heat over to mine like a heated blanket. I imagine me convincing him to wait until we're married, insisting that he can wait for me. Then I see him lying in bed with another woman, unable to wait. My heart hurts, like it's physically been wounded; and all I can do to keep from expressing how heavy I feel right now, I smile weakly and say, "I know about that." the words burn coming out.

Emily's body completely relaxes and she loses all tension, even releasing a sigh of contentment and relief. "Thank God, I was worried about telling you," she touches my arm reassuringly. "I just know with Morgan that he can be hard to handle sometimes. He's got a good heart, though."

I force another smile, but I'm cringing and cracking inside. "Yeah," I nod, but it hurts to even do that. "A good heart."

Emily whirls around and opens the bathroom door for me, waiting for me to leave first. "You go," I say, smiling so much it aches. I feel like as long as I keep smiling, it's not affecting me. "I have to pee first."

Emily seems to not notice and exits merrily, like she just done a good thing. And in some way, I guess she had. I shove my boot hard into the bathroom door and try to remain calm, to keep from crying or running out like a madman screaming at him. Lunch is just lunch after all, right? He eats with Hotch occasionally, and Rossi too. I never get jealous then. But a woman is different. Why didn't he tell me? I'd tell him if I had lunch with Will. I tell him when I go to drop Henry off at Will's. It's just the considerate thing to do. My head is pounding with thoughts and images and each one tears off an even bigger piece of my heart, crumpling it cockily as if to say, _What are you gonna do about it? _ Morgan is not used to being in a committed relationship. He can't do it. He's not going to stay married to me. I'm surprised he even stayed one night engaged. I'm trying not to cry, trying not to cry. Anger fills me instead, like it's overflowing my sad emotions. I'll hate him instead.

* * *

I creep out of the bathroom, hardly making a sound, like a blip in a sea of people. I go unnoticed, and hurl my way up to Rossi's office. Sneakily, I need to know more about this woman. Files are stacking high in my office, and I really ought to be finding us a case, but I have to do this first, or else everything will fall short on my priority list, as selfish as that is. I'm sure Rossi knows something. I run into Morgan on my way to Rossi's, as he's heading to Hotch's office.

"Hey," he winks at me and cups my wrist. I don't blurt out, "I hate you", or wink back, I just stare at him. He doesn't seem to notice my coldness, and enters Hotch's office carelessly. I curse him under my breath the second he's gone, then raise my fist to knock on Rossi's door. Before I do, I make out the sound of Morgan's voice coming from the office next door. With the toes of my boot, I creep over, leaning against the door, listening.

"You can't tell JJ, Hotch," Morgan says. "I'm serious. She'll lose it."

Hotch sighs, then the sound of something slapping envelopes the room. I think it's the sound of Hotch closing a file. "How are we supposed to do this, professionally, without her knowing? How are you supposed to do this?" Hotch asks, then the sound of him sliding something comes out. "She has to know."

"Not yet," Morgan says, pleading. "Not until I figure it all out. Please, man, I need you to not say anything. You don't understand..."

"No, I do," Hotch says, but Morgan cuts him off.

"Last night, I asked JJ to marry me," silence. "She said yes. Hotch, look, if she knows about this, she's not going to go through with it. Not until this is over, anyway. I don't want to lose this, please Hotch, it's all I've got going for me."

Hotch sighs and for a while there's only the sound of Hotch's strong hesitance before he says, "Fine, but she's going to find out eventually. You can't hide this forever, you know that."

"Thanks, Hotch, you're the best." and I'm assuming that's the type of words you use at the closing of a conversation, so I dart out of the way and down the stairs, like I'm just innocently exiting Rossi's office. I hear Morgan click the door shut on my way to my office, and I walk inside, settling in my chair, peering at files, case after case. Morgan knocks on my door.

"Come in." I say, adjusting my hair.

"Hotch says we have a case," he informs me, opening the door only a crack. "Briefing on the jet."

I'm so used to saying those words. All I can do is nod with the weight of this knowledge. "Yeah, okay." I say solemnly. He sneaks in quick enough and leans down and kisses me. I feel dirty, his lips on mine. He pulls away and looks at me funny, but leaves, not asking why I'm drawn away from him suddenly.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Author's note: **I hate to give away any spoilers, since presumably you guys read this before reading the chapter, but what follows after JJ mentioning closing her eyes, is all a dream. When she wakes up to Morgan shaking her, that's back to reality. When I read it over, certain parts of the dream sequence seemed confusing, like you weren't sure which was reality or a dream. I hate to so predictably toss in a dream sequence, but it seemed to fit; like the Morgan having lunch thing was getting to her THAT much. Anyway, review and tell me what you think! Thank you! xoxo

* * *

His breathing sounds relaxed to me, like he's content. Why shouldn't he be? Everything in his life is going perfectly, in his mind. There's absolutely no reason why he shouldn't be sleeping peacefully tonight, nuzzled against my arm, his hand slung over his stomach. I'm not really sure why when he asked to come over tonight, that I didn't say no; I'm laying here right now, in the darkness of my bedroom with no lights on, wondering why I was missing the strength to decline his offer. I had, however, spent the movie night sulking beside him, coddling the pillow rather than him. We didn't even kiss. He briefly leaned forward and pecked my cheek; I followed it with a quick half-smile, that looked more cocky more than swooned. I think he could tell, but he didn't ask. He did ask, though, to sleep over. "It's really late, JJ, and I'm too tired to drive," he told me. "I've slept over before. Would you mind?" he asked with this pleasant smile like he just knew I'd give in. Normally, I would have; I would have enjoyed his body heat mixed with mine, the softness of his breath landing on my arm or neck, or the sound of his heart beat steady in his chest. But tonight, I welcomed him in my bed with hatred and such coldness; I'm surprised he hadn't asked if there's a draft.

I'm twirling at the frays of my comforter, wondering why he's getting such a good night's rest and I'm laying here pissed off. My blood is boiling, like a pot of water filling with bubbles swimming their way to the surface; my head is throbbing; not physically, but mentally, cramming it full with thoughts and images of where Morgan was hours before he came over to see me. The three or four hours he had between arriving home from the case and coming over here. I'm sure he wasn't alone. I imagine he even had gotten lucky. Maybe that's why he didn't ask me for sex tonight. On a normal occasion, he'd at least ask once, in a subtle way. He'd nuzzle my neck, tickle my shoulders with kisses, kiss me on the lips just once teasingly and say, "You sure you don't want to?" willingly. I'd always say no, that I wanted to wait. But tonight, he followed me upstairs without a word; with the exclusion of him, once settled in my bed, whispering in my ear, "Goodnight", Oh wait, he did say this beforehand: "This is how it's going to be when we're married," then he said, "Goodnight."

I'm bitter. I'm so bitter. All through the case I acted appropriately, neither one of us discussing our relationship for a blink of a second. But that wasn't so strange. When on duty, we treated each other like nothing but coworkers, solving a murder case. Though the case had given me ample time to distract myself, inside I was a furious dog with it's cage rattled and toyed with. Now laying here, I feel dirty. I roll over, and he stirs in his sleep. I fight hard not to ride my leg hard into his. He stirs a little more, makes a soft noise and crawls over to me. He spoons his arm around me and squeezes me for a second, like he wants to squish me. His face falls into my hair and he releases a sigh, then his breathing returns to a steady one, and I know he's back to sleep.

His arm feels wrong around me. I shouldn't have let him stay. Had he been in this position with that girl from lunch a few hours ago? I close my eyes. I can't fall asleep. I'm too filled with anger to close my eyes. I don't want to, but I see it: Morgan with a woman, sitting at a bar. She approaches him. And he can't say no. And besides, he's not getting it from me, so where else is he supposed to go? He brings her back to his place, and as he holds her hand leading her through his house, I spot the little things, the small but familiar surroundings that make Morgan's place feel like home. The photos on the mantel, the almost always unlit fireplace with clean firewood, the white leather sofas, and they're passing through it all. He takes her to his bedroom, leans her against the wall. He kisses her. Long and slow, like he knows I can see; like he's deliberately sticking me with a knife. He touches her thigh, she raises it higher so he can get a better feel. I feel sick even picturing it. It feels so wrong. It _is _ wrong. What right does he have? She kisses his neck, just like I do; that special way I kiss his neck, the special way I make him feel. He says to her, "You do it just right. No one's ever made me feel like this just by kissing my neck," like he's said to me. She grins, pleased with herself. I feel like I got kneed in the gut. He wraps his arms around her appreciatively and brings her onto his lap, until she lands in perfect position. "You don't have a girlfriend?" she'd ask him, when she's not preoccupied by his tongue in her mouth. He'd smile cockily, tilt his head and say, "Does it matter?" No, it doesn't. Because he can't commit. Because he's a one-night-stand only kind of guy. I'm not worth the commitment.

Before my daydreaming gets me literally sick to my stomach, I force my way out of bed. I can't handle quiet; I can't stir silently inside, allowing my pot of water to boil over. I'm not sure what I'm going to say, or if I even have any right not to trust him, but I can't stand his arm around me anymore. It doesn't bring me comfort like it used to, it brings me sickness and heartache. He pops up immediately at my jumping out of bed, and sits up. "What happened?" he asks groggily, rubbing his eyes.

I'm pacing, not sure how to make myself stop. "Am I making a mistake?" I ask, to no one in particular. "God, I'm making a mistake."

He flicks on the light in the lamp beside his side of the bed. "What?" he checks his watch on his wrist. "It's one AM, JJ, what's the matter?"

"I'm making a mistake," I repeat, my breath quickening. He gets out of bed and holds my shoulders, trying to keep me still.

"What mistake? What are you talking about?" he's asking me calmly, like I'm a victim and he's trying to recall a memory. I can't look him in the eye. I can't see him look at me that way, and think he's looked at another woman that way too.

"We can't get married," I blurt out, and somehow untangle myself from the weight of his hold on me. I sit on my bed. "I can't marry you."

He stands there and stares, for a long while. I think he's frozen. I think he's became a statue, and I get the urge to jump up and wave my hand in front of his face, make sure he's still real. "I don't know what I did." he finally says, and sits down on the bed beside me. "I tried to do everything right, I thought since we're engaged now... I didn't even ask you for sex."

"Oh wow, you're actually acting like a decent person," I lean forward, faking grabbing something, and then fake handing it to him. "Here's your award. Congratulations."

He stares at me, and his look is so far away and unrecognizable I'm not sure if he's going to slap me or shake me. He keeps his hands contained on his lap. "Did you take something?" he asks me, all serious.

"No, I didn't _take _ something," I say snappishly. "I'm mad at you."

"No kidding," he says.

"You're not even going to ask why?" I fold my arms, and I'm trying to keep my voice lowered. It isn't until right now that I realize that Henry is sleeping down the hall and could probably hear me pretty well if I start yelling.

"I figured you're going to tell me," he says casually. Like I hadn't just said, "I can't marry you".

I stare hard at him, squinting, trying to piece it together. "You don't care, do you?" I ask him, leaning forward, trying to get a better picture of him. I'm trying to see anything in his eyes; fear of losing me, confusion from the fight, anything; all I see is dullness. He's bored. "You really don't give a shit."

"I'd give a shit if it wasn't," he checks his watch again. "One thirty in the morning."

I jolt up, furious, and throw the comforter at him. "Go to bed then," I say, through gritted teeth, my cheeks burning hot. "I hope you sleep so fucking well."

He doesn't sit up, but he leans forward like he's going to. "Come on, JJ!" he calls out to me.

"Go to bed!" I yell back, and slam my bedroom door. I pace in my kitchen. I pace in the hallway. I pace in the living room. I pace in my backyard. I start talking to myself; I start to cry in the bathroom. It feels like hours have passed and Morgan hasn't come down to check on me. I go back upstairs, creep into the bedroom, and he's asleep. Sleeping possibly more comfortable than when I was in the bed with him. I walk up to him just to be sure. He's making this soft snoring noise that he makes. He couldn't sleep any deeper than if he was dead.

Something stiff and hard is on my side of the bed, and I tug at the comforter to take a peek. All I see is something dark, something I can't make out without a light on. I pull the comforter down more. A heap of dark hair pops up from the comforter, instinctively touches Morgan's cheek. "Baby, what is it?" and smiles at him. I want to scream, I want to kill him. Maybe I would, if I hadn't been flashed into reality by something shaking me.

"God, are you alright? JJ, you're breathing so heavy," Morgan tells me, his hand on my side, shaking me softer the more I come to. "Were you dreaming?" his voice sounds groggy and sleepy, but molded with concern. Once I raise my head and blink around the room, he puts his head back down on the pillow.

"I was dreaming," I admit, panting.

"Yeah," he says with a short laugh. "I'd say it was pretty scary." and starts stroking the back of my head. He tries to pull me down with him; I won't take his hand.

"Get up," I say slowly, sitting up. "Get up. We need to talk."

I imagine this going on just like my dream. But to be sure, I grab flesh on my arm and pinch. I cry out and curse it hurts so bad. He's staring at me now, sitting up, turning the light on. Though it went so horribly in my dream, I say the same words: "We can't get married," I breathe in and repeat, "I can't marry you."

For a second, he's like dream Morgan, reacting like he's unconscious. But then he blinks and sadness fills his eyes, and he looks like he's being drenched of the security and happiness he had when he was sleeping next to me. He looks so sad I almost feel like taking it all back.

"You... why?" he touches the fabric of my comforter. "Is it because I slept over? I didn't try anything, JJ, I swear-"

"God no, it's not because of that," I crawl back into bed, sitting beside him. "It's that I didn't tell you what Emily told me a couple of days ago."

He raises his eyebrows suspiciously. "Emily? What did she tell you?" he already looks mad at her, and I feel bad bringing her into our problems. I'll have to remind to apologize for it later.

"She told me that she saw you out with another woman the other day,"

He sighs. "I never went out-"

"To lunch?"

He looks away, and I can see he remembers it now. "JJ, how are we supposed to get married if you can't trust me?" he looks extremely hurt, but not guilt-ridden. I'm not a profiler, but I can see, clear as day, that he's not feeling bad about anything he's done. He feels bad because he's got a fiance that doesn't trust him. My heart aches everytime it beats in my chest.

I raise my shoulders, expecting myself to say something that'll fix everything, I drop them and say, "I don't know," I can't stop the words from coming out; I can't stop myself from realizing that they're true. "I don't trust you. I don't. You never stay with one woman and that's a fact, everyone knows it. I keep expecting you to bail out."

"Dammit JJ, I'm not going to bail out," he's getting angry now. "You never believe me."

"So why didn't you tell me about lunch with this woman?" I don't want to know. I don't know what's scaring me more; hearing that he's seeing women on the side, or that I'm wrong not to trust him and now I just lost him for good. I wish I could close my ears and shut my eyes like I did as a kid when my parents would fight.

"It was nothing," he sighs heavily, but he won't touch me. "It's nothing, really. I would have told you, but it wasn't anything you needed to know. Believe me."

I feel so overcome by one single emotion. One single sentence that is so harmful to our future marriage that it hurts me to even say it. "I don't believe you."

"Ever? Or just now?"

I inhale, "I don't think I can ever one-hundred percent believe you," I admit. I feel tears fill my eyes, because it's so true, as much as I wish it wasn't. "Considering your past, I don't think I can."

His eyes droop like they're getting too heavy to hold up, and he resembles a beautiful painting soaking wet and dripping colors. He's only dripping in black and white, lifelessly; the beauty and life getting sucked out of him. "JJ, I swear, nothing happened," he touches my hand, but his touch feels cold and harsh. "I've done a lot of shitty things in my life. Things I'd do over, things I wish I'd never done. But there are two things I've never done to a woman. I've never hit one, and I've never cheated on one."

My heart feels full. I want to say I'm sorry, but the words won't come out. I want to kick myself for being so stubborn. I want to kick myself for ruining the good thing I was too dumb not to appreciate. "I'm s-"

"You don't have to say it," he crawls out from under the comforter and walks to my bedroom door. "It's not your fault you don't trust me. It's mine."

Now I'm frozen, reacting unconsciously, sitting in my bed. I hug my arms; I'm freezing. He's leaving. "I thought you were too tired to drive?" I say to him, my tears beginning to spill over and down my face. I don't think he can see them from that far away.

"I'm awake now." he says, and I can hear him downstairs gathering his boots and his keys, and the front door shuts.

* * *

The tea kettle roars in my kitchen. Henry is still asleep, but I'm preparing breakfast for him anyway. On nights where Morgan sleeps over, he usually eats breakfast with me. But today, there's extra bacon and eggs, and no one to share them with. The kettle whistles to me, getting louder it seems, until I shut it off and it settles down. The front door swings open and I whirl around, and it's Morgan. He's in his jeans and boots and puffy coat and he looks like he's freezing. I grab him an extra cup, as he starts taking his coat off.

"I have tea made," I tell him. I begin preparing him a plate, even though he never said he was staying. It gives me something to do besides staring at him, like he is doing to me.

"I went to lunch the other day with Mrs. Cleveland," he informs me. I almost drop the plate I'm so surprised. The tea and food can wait, I need to know more. Thinking back, Mrs. Cleveland was pretty young-looking. "I'm not sure what Emily thought she saw, but we were just talking. I invited her out with me. It wasn't my idea to eat at a diner, but she said she wanted the meeting to be cival. She knows I helped put Michael away. Given what happened, she thought I was trying to get her on something."

I pull out a chair and sit down. For a second, I can forget how horrible I was to him earlier. "Why did you want to talk to her?"

"For sex, of course," he tells me, bitterly. I look down, ashamed. He sighs and reluctantly pulls out the chair beside me and sits down. "Because something's been going on. I didn't want to tell you because everything's been going great. Or it was going great. At the time, it was. All I wanted was for you to relax and plan the wedding, I didn't want you getting caught up in everything again," he sighs and fiddles with the table cloth absentmindedly. "I thought if more bad things happened, the more you'd deter from wanting a family with me."

"Bad things? What bad things?" I touch his hand, to bring him back to focus. "What's going on?"

"Michael's brother contacted me recently," he says. "Half-brother, actually. Mother's son with a different father."

"Why did he contact you? How did he contact you?" I'm so confused I just blurt out, "_What_?"

"He apparently got into great terms with Michael after Reid left the family. Michael's half-brother, Jason, was - let's say - Reid's replacement. Jason became Michael's buddy, just like Reid was."

"What does Jason want with you?" I shift in my seat. For right now, things feel semi-normal. It's almost easy to get up from my chair, sit on his lap and feel myself getting tangled in his embrace. But I know subconsciously that if I tried that, he'd nudge me away.

"To put it lightly, he's not happy Michael's in prison," he shrugs halfheartedly. "He's said some things to me, but I'm not too concerned. I got Hotch involved, to help me out. We can't do anything about it per se, because as far as I know, he's never committed a crime."

"From a profiler's perspective, do you think he's capable of what Michael's done?" I ask him.

"I haven't spoken to him long enough to say officially, but yeah, I think he has it in him." he leans forward, like he can immediately feel my body tense. He touches my hand, pulls it away from my other one and slips his fingers through. His hand feels nice and warm in mine, and I think right now's a good time to cry and say I'm sorry, but I'm too frozen to speak. "I didn't want to bring you into this. I got you into so much chaos with Michael, and all I wanted was for us to have a normal life."

I nod slowly, understandably. "This is why, if we have a child together," I pretend like the argument we're in the midst of is temporarily nonexistent. "I can't work at the BAU anymore. It's too dangerous. Too time-consuming, too."

He nods. "I know," he lets go of my hand and sinks back into his chair. "I said that when you thought you were pregnant with Will's kid."

I remember. Taking the pregnancy test, believing I was expecting. _Wanting_ to be expecting. I want to be happy. I want to be married and pregnant, and not having to worry about serial killers. I want to feel safe, because I haven't in so long. "What has Jason said to you?" I ask.

"Nothing to worry about," he shrugs again. "I'm handling it."

"I can handle it, too," I assure him.

"Not this time," he shakes his head at rapid speed. "I've got it under control. Hotch is helping too. There's no way if this Jason kid is up to something, that we won't catch him."

I don't know what to say. I guess I have no choice but to go along with it. "Okay," I say quietly. "I have breakfast made. There's tons, if you're hungry."

"I went to a diner across town that opened real early, I ate there," he says. I nod and start preparing myself a plate. I want to cry. Stuffing an excessive amount of eggs onto my plate is the only thing that's keeping actual tears from falling.

"But I could eat more," he says behind me. "If there's really a lot left over."

I smile, plopping the food down much more cheerfully, knowing he at least doesn't hate me to the extent that he refuses to stay. "Morgan, I have to say this-"

"You don't," he says, cutting me off. I'm startled when I feel his arms circle around my waist and he pulls me close. I put my head back and smile. "I get that the little things I'd say at work about girls and about past relationships-"

"You've had relationships?" I say jokingly.

He smirks and nibbles my earlobe. "You're too much," he says seductively, hissing in my ear. I remind myself that Henry cannot hear me moan, as much as I want to. "Maybe we shouldn't get married."

I make a whining noise. "I didn't mean that." I whisper to him.

He kisses my neck. "I hoped you didn't," he says, his voice muffled over my skin. "It damn near killed me hearing you say that."

I saw it, when I told him. I put my head back and reach my hand backward, scraping my nails down his neck. "I'm sorry," I say softly, my breath hard to catch.

He sucks lightly on my neck, reaching my collarbone. I let out a sound, then slam my mouth closed. I hope Henry didn't hear me. I don't think so, because his bedroom is upstairs. Morgan pulls his face away from my neck and I can feel him staring at me. I turn around to face him. "I've never heard you make a noise like that before," he says.

"I've made noises before when we've kissed," I tell him, pulling my arms around his back. "I'm sure I have."

"Not like that," he shakes his head, starry-eyed and appearing very turned on. I meet his eyes with a strong gaze.

"Well I'm saving my best for our first night," I say teasingly, using my best sex kitten voice. He looks almost pitiful, like my teasing him is too much. "You can wait," I tell him. "You'll be glad we waited."

"It might kill me first." he insists, pouting pathetically. I laugh. I think I can hear something in the distance, something I can't register.

"Do you hear that?-" I ask him, and a loud clinking sound like kitchenware wrestling erupts our embrace, along with Morgan falling over. There's a man, appearing behind Morgan's frame after hitting him over the head with a pan, staring down at him. I scream. What's that going to do? My immediate thought is Henry. I'm not sure if I should run upstairs and hold him, or act like there's no child here, so he won't think to go upstairs.

Morgan's on the floor holding his head, that's pounding in his hand. "Shit," Morgan says under his breath, then charges his boot hard into the man's leg. He drops the pan and falls to the floor. "JJ, get out of here. Seriously. I've got this."

I know I should get Henry and leave, but Morgan doesn't have his gun attached to his hip. Mine is upstairs. Locked. The man pulls out a knife, grabbing Morgan's wrist. It's clean skin and not a single mark on them, but as the man - who I assume is Jason - hovers over his wrist threateningly, with it's sharp glistening blade, I react. Morgan screams at me not to, but I do. I charge forward, and the sunlight outside dances off of the blade and there's so much noise around me, that I don't even know what my charging is going to do. I feel like I'm jumping forward with my eyes closed, falling. All I can hear is Morgan yelling something - _don't! Just go! _ - and I see blood; I'm not even sure who's blood it is. It may even be mine.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Author's note: **Not too much happens here. Might incorporate more Jason drama, if you guys want. It's up to you guys. My question is: Do you wanna see more happy JJ and Morgan moments? Or more drama? Let me know! Thanks in advance for reading and/or reviewing, adding to favorites or anything that has anything to do with acknowledging my work. Thank you SO much.

* * *

My head is pounding in my hand. Each time I open my eyes it screams like it's begging for mercy; I can feel it throbbing rhythmically when I release my hand from the spot that aches. It takes a second to get my vision cleared again and to stop the room from spinning on it's heels, and eventually everything comes into focus. My sole mission as a mother is to protect my son. I try to jump up, but Morgan pushes me back down. He glares at me, and the only thing I can think to do is play dead. I close my eyes, lay flat and keep my breathing to a minimum. Jason has to know he didn't whack me in the head hard enough to kill me, but he'll at least think he got a good enough shot in to knock me unconscious.

"Jason, calm down," Morgan coaches somewhere near me. His voice sounds pretty close, but I couldn't tell you where he is. I'm too scared to open my eyes, paralyzed by fear. I awoke with this burning urge to run upstairs and protect my offspring, but now that I had my eyes open long enough to see he's nowhere in sight, I'm too frightened to physically move myself from this position. "Would you calm down?"

"Do you know what your friend had done to Michael? And what Michael had done for me?" Jason says, what sounds like right above me, his breath shortening. He's practically panting out his sentences.

"No," Morgan says coolly. "But I think you're going to tell me." Morgan's sharp sarcasm comes out harsh and unafraid, and normally I'd appreciate his masculinity and find it incredibly sexy, but right now it feels like he's playing with fire. If I wasn't too afraid to move an inch, I'd give him the darkest death glare I could muster up.

"Your friend-"

"Reid?" Morgan interjects. Jason shuts up, and all I can hear coming from his direction is his shoes tapping on my floor and his heavy breathing; his breath coming out loosely and rapidly like he's run a marathon. "His name is Reid. My friend's name is-"

"Was, you mean?" Jason cockily retorts, a hint of a smile in his tone.

"Yeah," Morgan deflates. "His name was Reid."

Jason heaves out a sigh and - to my surprise - doesn't push the Reid torment any further. He leaves it there. "Michael needed Reid, you know that? To keep the ghosts away, you know?" Jason seems calmer now; his breathing is returning to a slower pace. "Reid just up and left. It screwed Michael up, Michael told me that. Sure, he had his issues, but he didn't deserve to be locked up."

"Jason, man, I know it feels that way," Morgan is calmer now too, and as I follow his voice, I hear that he must still be lying on the floor, across from me. I hear the sharp squeak of his palm sliding on the linoleum. "But Michael was sick, he needed help. He killed my best friend," his voice cracks and he sounds desperate. "He took his life, man. Reid was a great person. He helped save many lives. Reid didn't deserve to die, and that's the truth."

"You took away _my_ best friend," Jason shoots back, sounding colder. "He didn't deserve it either. What makes you think Reid deserved to live? What makes you decide those things? What makes you," his voice, the more he speaks, gets angrier, like his rage is burning lava. I tense every time his voice raises in volume, and I imagine Henry in his bed, trembling. I've got to get to him somehow.

"Just calm down, Jason," Morgan proceeds to say, and right then I pry my eyes open. Morgan is still on the floor, a red spot forming on the back of his head from where the pan blasted him. His hands are raised and he's lifting up like he's going to do sit-ups. His eyes are pitiful and sympathetic, and it almost looks convincing. I've seen Morgan use this tactic when trying to calm a killer, and I'm praying to God that this time it works.

Jason spots me with my eyes open and grabs hold of my wrist. My wrist feels fragile and bony in the tightness of his hand, and he brings me to my feet. I momentarily forgot how hard he hit me in the head, and the throbbing returns full-forced at the speed of me flying upward. Morgan makes a sound, something that resembles a scream of horror, and his face turns pale at the sight of Jason pinching me. Jason pulls me to his chest and squeezes me there, but he's not causing me any physical harm technically. I try to listen to nothing but the sound of my head beating it's own musical tune, and I won't look down at the spots of blood on my fingers where I touched my head.

"You don't have to bring her into this," Morgan tells him, turning breathless. "She had nothing to do with Michael being put away. That was all me."

"I can't leave her alone," Jason says, holding me so close to him I can feel the pace of his heart beat like it's entering my own body. It sounds a lot like my brain pounding. My heart is racing too, but not nearly as loud. "I can't trust her. What if she calls the police? I can't leave her unattended."

"Just let her go," Morgan pleads. "She can come by me. Please. It was all me, I swear." I swear it's the first time I've ever seen Morgan appear truly petrified. There's a twist of emotions unwinding within me, that I can't decide which is more overpowering: The look of horror frightens me, as I'm succumbed to the realization of just how much deep shit we're in. But the look of horror also comforts me, as I'm succumbed to the realization of just how deep his love is for me.

Jason pauses, my wrist still tight in his hand. He pinches my jaw in his hand, and I swear, with the fury of his shaking grip, he could crack it in two. He meets my eyes. I think I might collapse. But the thought that that might only infuriate him more is the one thing that forces myself conscious. "Did you know Reid?" he whispers to me, his mouth close to mine. I taste salt on his breath.

I swallow, but my mouth is too dry. My head pounds, pressuring me to answer. "Yes," I nod slowly, the very nod making my head feel like it's splitting in half. "I knew Reid."

Morgan is squinting at us when I look at him with the corner of my eye, and I'm not sure what he's thinking. I'm not even sure if he can hear us. Jason exhales slowly, his breath relaxing on my face immediately. I want to turn away, but his grip is so forceful and tight I'm afraid to attempt it. "Did you love him?" he asks me, his voice still hushed to a volume presumably only I can hear.

I'm not sure what's the right thing to say, so I say the truth. "Yes," I swallow again, but my voice is becoming hoarse from my lack of hydration. "I did love him. He was a great friend." My voice is shaky and scratchy, and I'm shaking. His eyes flicker on mine, but every time my eyes try to look away, he shakes my jaw a little to grab my attention.

"Do you miss him?" If I had guts, I'd ask why he cares. But I guess it doesn't matter. Reasons don't really matter when it's life or death. I'm not even sure what Jason is capable of.

"Yes," I say quietly. I try to see Morgan, but Jason shakes my jaw just a little bit harder. I meet his eyes straight-on.

"So you know what it's like to be missing your best friend?" I nod my head. "You know how lonely it is? Imagine how lonely it'll be when your fucking boyfriend is dead and buried-"

I'm listening so closely to his words that I don't see Morgan lurching forward, about to tackle Jason. I hardly notice when Jason's hand is ripped from my face and wrist and is now flying on my linoleum floor, Morgan on top. Morgan scrambles to his feet and places his boot on Jason's chest, balancing his weight on his right foot. "Don't move." Morgan commands. He snaps his finger, draws me back to reality and points to upstairs. "Go. I'll take care of this."

I make my way upstairs. I ignore the sounds of Morgan fighting Jason. The sounds of someone's fist pounding into someone's face, and the sound of someone groaning in pain. I twist Henry's door handle and see the familiar flickering of his blue nightlight, casting fish shadows all over his bedroom walls and the familiar sound of his subtle snoring. I make sure to carefully close his bedroom door and cradle him. He snuggles safely in my arms, barely stirring in his sleep, hardly acknowledging my presence. He nuzzles up to me like he's a newborn all over again. My hands are shaking, but I steadily rock back and forth, my face buried in his fine hair. For a second, everything relaxes around me. Fishes are swimming around me joyfully, and the world is at peace. From here, you can hardly make out the jingling sound of Morgan's handcuffs and the incessant complaining of Jason as Morgan whisks him off.

* * *

The hot water feels good on my face. The steam is sweating my mirrors and the temperature is leaving red blotches on my stomach, but it feels good to me. I can close my eyes and feel nothing but the feeling of warmth all around me, enveloping me like a fireplace in the dead of winter or with the same comfort of a mother's embrace. I turn around and the hot water pours on my bruised scalp and I wince in pain. The hot water landing on the cut feels like my scalp is tearing, and I cover it with my palms for protection. Morgan knocks on the bathroom door. "Come in," I say.

I hear him slip inside and click the door shut. Behind the thin white curtain, I can see his silhouette taking a seat on the closed toilet lid. I peek out from the side of the tub. He's sitting there, picking at the soap dish. "You got checked out by the Doctor, right?" I ask him, slipping back under the shower head without him spotting me staring at him. "Jason left a pretty big bruise there."

"Yeah, there will be a golf ball there tomorrow," he chuckles, and I hear the soap dish being put back down on the sink. "But I'm fine. No concussion, so we're good. How are you? Jason grabbed your wrist pretty tight."

"I'm fine," I look down at my wrist, that has thin lines across it like a light purple bracelet. I hardly notice the pain, but somehow touching it makes it become real again. The image of Morgan pleading with Jason with his eyes for my safety. I feel warmth around me for a different reason. "Really. The Doctor said my head should be fine, too. Just a little cut and bruising. And it got us out of work today, so I guess it was worth it."

Morgan scoffs loudly. "Worth it?" he says incredulously.

"I was kidding," I smile. "But everyone is safe. And Jason is gone, right?"

"Jason's gone," he assures me.

"No more of Michael's relatives are going to be popping out anytime soon?" I peek out behind the curtain again, my wet shoulder creeping out as well.

He smiles at me. "I'm not sure, JJ," he says sadly, shrugging helplessly. "I can't say for sure. But if more come along, I don't want you involved."

"Got it." I nod at him, promising him silently. Then I get an idea. "Hey, why don't you join me?"

His face shoots up from the bathroom floor mat and he stares at me like I've lost my mind. "Uh, JJ, I thought you said-?"

"I know, I know, and I meant it," I run my hand along my wet collarbone teasingly. "But the water feels great."

He keeps staring at me.

"Okay fine, but you have the option if you'd like." I pull the curtain back all the way until it's closed off around me. I bury myself under the comforting embrace of burning hot water. It's not long before I hear the jingling of his belt like keys, and the sound of his denim jeans crunching as they loosen around his legs. The sound of him slipping out of them, and then the sound of his cotton shirt being pulled off. The slight hissing of his shirt landing on the floor. His silhouette becomes bigger behind the curtain, closer. His hand print touches the curtain.

"Are you sure, JJ?" he asks me, tentative. "If you don't want to..."

I stick my hand out and reach for his. I'm reaching for air fora while until he slips his hand through mine, and allows me to pull him inside. I look down, at his bare feet so much darker than mine, and his toenails not painted. His arms pool around my waist instantly, and he places his chin on my shoulder, his body hogging the water. "Hey," I whisper, putting my hand behind his head to stroke his neck. "I can't feel the water."

He kisses my shoulder. "Jesus, it's so hot in here," he says, kissing my ear. "Aren't you burning yourself?"

I turn around and face him, wrapping my arms around his shoulders. I press my chest hard against his. He shudders, like it's about all he can handle. "I like it hot." I whisper to him naughtily.

"You're trying to kill me, aren't you?" his fingertips are drawing lines on the small of my back, leaving thin wet circles. "That's your plan."

"Nooo," I shake my head innocently. "Not me."

"JJ, you said we couldn't do anything," he looks down, finally acknowledging I'm naked, I think, for the first time. I pull away from his body far enough for him to get a better look. His hands trace circles around the red blotches on my stomach from the hot water. "Yet you bring me in here. Why?"

"To tease you, of course," I say with a laugh, like I'm kidding. But when I think about it, I know I'm not. I want to wait to go all the way with him for when we're married, but I also want to see him desire me; look at me with lust in his eyes, like he can't handle another second of being alone with me without touching me.

He shakes his head disapprovingly. "You're bad." he says. "You're so bad." And kisses my nose. "I'm not sure what I'm allowed to do and what's not allowed," he looks down at my body sadly. "Is there a rulebook?"

"Nope," I shake my head and bite my bottom lip, and his hands begin to wander. I pull away from him. He watches my body as it pulls back the curtain and I step out of the tub. He groans.

"Where are you _going_?" he says, almost whining.

"I'm done," I flash him an innocent smile as I wrap myself in a towel, then begin towel-drying the ends of my hair. "I was in there for a while."

"You are a tease," he decides, looking like he's about to growl at me. I shrug. I also realize that it's my first time acknowledging _he's_ naked, and allow myself to look. His body is toned and all muscle, and his waistline curves into a V shape as it goes downward, like it's a pathway leading me to his most precious part. There's a trail of hair leading down his pelvis, and my eyes scroll downward, about to latch onto the sight of him, perfect and strong even down there when the curtain rips me from my view.

"Hey!" I scream at him.

"You can't stare longer than I did," he says, stifling a laugh. "It's only fair."

"Tease!" I shout at him.

He steps out with a towel tied around his waist. I know that I could, very easily, yank the towel off with zero complaints on his part. And the hormonal risque part of me wants to. I want him, sweaty and soaked from the shower, to rip off my towel, place me on the sink and make love to me right here. But I also know that I want it to be my wedding night that it first happens, and that it'll feel more special that way. I do, however, have a hard time containing myself, so I decide to finish getting dressed in my bedroom. Just to be safe.

* * *

He joins me about twenty minutes later. We're both dry now and dressed to go to sleep. He slips in under the covers with me and curls up next to me, inhaling the scent of my freshly washed hair. "Mmmm," he says in my neck. "I love the smell of your hair."

I pull his arm around my waist, just where I like it, and press his body tight against mine. I feel safest like this. I've never told him this, but some nights I imagine we're already married, and I'm already pregnant. And this is how it's going to be. His arm around my waist, his hand on my stomach, feeling the bump of our unborn child. I imagine our mornings being filled with Henry stomping inside, jumping on the bed. Morgan scooping up Henry, wrestling him. Then he'd lean down, kiss my stomach, say good morning to our child, and then say good morning to me. I could see it. Sometimes I want it so bad I'm too impatient to wait.

"I was thinking today," I say to him, just when he flicks the light off. He curls up close to me again. "After everything with Jason. That you were right."

"Mm?" he asks tiredly.

I'm tickling his fingers as I talk. I think it's making him more sleepy. "I think it'd be best that I don't continue working after we get married," I say.

Morgan stirs a little, and lifts his head to exactly where the moon is casting a glow. I can see his confusion in the barely lit room. "Really? You're sure?"

"I thought it was already decided," I twist on my back to look at him closer. "This morning. I thought we agreed that I wouldn't be working."

"Right, I guess we did," he lowers back down on his pillow. "I think that'd be best, too. Since we're going to have a baby and all. Yeah, I think you should quit."

"And I was thinking..." I play with his ring finger, which feels so strong and big in my hands, that I have to use three fingers to match to the size of his one. I trace thinly where his wedding band will be. "Maybe this job is too dangerous for you too..."

"JJ..." he says almost commandingly, like he doesn't want to go there.

"You're going to be a father, Morgan. The job is too dangerous. Look at what happened today."

"But JJ, when Will wanted you to quit, you didn't want to either. This job is practically my life, you know that."

"But we're going to be your life now too," I touch my stomach, that has a nonexistent pregnancy bump and a nonexistent baby inside. He places his hand there, on top of mine. "And this stuff, these killers coming into our home. It can't happen. Look what happened to Hotch-"

"I know, JJ," he kisses my cheek. "I know. Let's not go there."

"Will you consider it?"

He sighs reluctantly. "I'll consider it."

"Thank you." I twist back over to my side, his arm wrapped around my waist. He leaves his hand there on my stomach.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Author's note: **This chapter might not mean too much to the story right now, but I might end up incorporating more of this interracial racist hatred stuff later on, I'm not sure. Sadly we still deal with this exact form of hate in the world, and there are people who don't let love just be love. I definitely wanted JJ to tell her to stick it where the sun don't shine, because Morgan is perfect the EXACT way he is. Am I right, ladies? ;)

* * *

Gone are the days of hot chocolate cravings and blankets being warmed by the fire so you could cozy up with them later; gone are the days of candy hearts and paper cut-out Valentine's cards and lovey-dovey kisses exploding everywhere. Spring is here. It felt like it'd never come, but thinking back, it actually felt like a button had been pressed and we're now living in fast-forward, zipping by our usual surroundings carelessly, without ever stopping. We're getting blips of images every now and then; a tree here, a leaf there, the grass greening at every turn. Days collided into days, weeks faded into weeks; pages on the calender turned from red and gold, to a light pink, which evidently is the shade for Spring. My specific calender, which hangs by a cow magnet on my refrigerator, has a light pink tulip on the front image. May 23rd is our wedding date. It is now, according to my calender, seemingly I've kept my days in order, May 12th. The days are quickening. And I can't catch my breath. I'm haphazardly scattering around mindlessly, invitations already sent out, and me spending the rest of the week praying I hadn't forgotten someone important. Flowers have been chosen (with Garcia's help) and color ideas have been decided (with both Emily and Garcia's help this time). What at first was a silly thought, manifested itself into the color palette for my wedding; light blue and white. How ordinary, one would typically think, but something about the delicacy of light blue (the shade of the sky on the perfect day of summer, with zero clouds in the sky to shape around the blue) and the tenderness of white seemed to catch with me. Like it was my color combination. Like it just said, JJ. It certainly didn't say, Morgan, though. Morgan seemed indecisive about the color pattern. When I first brought the idea to the table, he had chuckled lightly, holding his beer and said, "Really? Isn't that girly?" but in a lighthearted, playful way that told me he really didn't care either way. I pushed the color pattern further, plucking out bridesmaid dresses the very next day with my two best girlfriends. Two nights later, though, Morgan and I fought. No big deal, really, just a couple's kind of fight, nothing out of the ordinary, but in the heat of the disagreement, in the confined space of my bedroom, concealing us out of Henry's sight and earshot, he'd said, "You're the one who's dooming this relationship," I'd shouted back in a hiss of a hushed tone, "How am I 'dooming' this relationship?" he boomed back with, "With not trusting me and your feminine choices for our wedding! Do you know me _at all_?" But we of course made up later that evening and since then, nothing's been brought up again about the color choice. I've been running with it, assuming that when we both said our apologies, that it also meant I got my way.

But now the date was coming sooner, and I am feeling pressure. For starters, Diana hasn't RSVP-ed yet, that's the worst anxiety of all. The doctors said she's been better, and when I'd talk to the receptionist when I called last week, she'd said her new medication was working fondly, and that at this rate she could attend the wedding given she'd be supervised and not left unattended. And she'd have to be back before midnight, like her illness works like clockwork, knowing when and what time to have an episode. Why hasn't she at least contacted me, to inform me on _why _ she cannot make it? Isn't that the decent, humane thing to do? Lately my heart rate's been speeding at the mention of it sneaking up on us while we're standing absentmindedly, as it sneaks in like a thief in the night, and instead of feeling reassurance, I feel panic. I wonder if Morgan's been feeling the same terror.

Morgan walks in, holding his travel bag, and throws it on his left side on the floor underneath the coat rack. Now would be the perfect time for me to house-train my soon-to-be hubby by politely saying, "Would you mind picking that up and putting it somewhere else?" so that'd he know full well what _not_ to do in our marriage, but I'm feeling anxious right now and I'm getting that lightheaded feeling come into my brain again, that bringing that up, risk the chance of an argument brewing, seems silly right now. "How was breakfast with Rossi?" I ask, already sounding too close to a bored housewife, having nothing to do all day but tend to her husband's needs. I try to push that out of my mind, and more importantly, the fact that I don't seem to like it very much.

He sighs, slouching his way over to the couch. "Exhausting," he crinkles his forehead, rubs the thin creases and laughs lightly. "Rossi can talk, man, he could go on for days." I force myself to laugh too, because it only feels appropriate.

"How has your day been?" he asks me, but he's also reaching for the remote, even in his laid-back position. With his head propped up on the throw pillow, and his body laying completely flat on the couch, he's using the length of his arm, extending it as far as it can go without snapping something, to pat his hand away on things, feeling for the television remote. I stop him. Now's the time to suggest it. I step forward boldly.

"Morgan, forget the TV," I say kind of hastily, which I honestly didn't mean. The sharpness of my tone makes his arm stand still, lying flat on top of the three magazines on the coffee table. He stares at me, eyes wide, eyebrows arched. He brings his arm back and retrieves it back to his unoccupied one. "We need to talk about something."

His face gains tension. "Oh no," he adjusts his position, sitting up only about an inch or so higher. "I've had enough failed relationships to know that line is never about something good."

I wave my hand, walking over to him. I don't blame him for naturally assuming I'm ready to bolt, since I'm predicting that my uneasiness these couple of weeks has been apparent. I sit on his lap, landing softly, careful not to land plumply on his sensitive area. Then again, he's been without for so long, it might just excite him. He instinctively, like it's already come natural to him, wraps his arm around my lap and using his other free hand to tickle my back, right around the clasp of my bra. I arch my back so he can stroke that special part, right smack in the middle, where it feels the greatest. He seems to like giving me pleasure, probably because he hasn't been able to do it in many other ways. It occurs to me that I need to make sure I tell him that he's pleased me in other forms of intimacy; such as communication, kissing, cuddling, and other more platonic ways of touching. The way his tongue flickers on certain spots of my neck, or the way his lips seem to shape perfectly when their pressing hard against mine, even sinking into my mouth. The way I desire him like crazy, more than I let on. Someday, I should tell him. It just seems too private for my wedding vows.

"No, no, no," I say, picking at the top of his shirt. Nothing in particular, just focusing on the thin material feeling so fragile in between my fingers, where I know his strong muscles are concealed. "Nothing bad. Nothing bad, really. Just something I felt we needed to discuss. Look into, actually."

He runs his fingertips along my hip, dancing his thumb right above the top of my jeans. I get the urge to let him go further, but now, more than ever, is not a good time to get carried away. He knows he's teasing me, but I don't budge; I don't tell him to stop, either. "Yeah?" he asks, burying his thumb just a little underneath the waist of my jeans. "What about?" he gets this cocky grin, his lips curving devilishly, his eyes daring mine, burning with flickery flame. It kills me not to devour him right then.

"About...something I've been thinking about," I peel harder at his shirt. He thumbs my skin some more, his fingertips joining in, tickling my hip in spots I hadn't realized had sensitive areas. "Something I think is important for our marriage. I think at first you're going to be against it, but it's important to me, so remember that."

"Important to you," he processes this, licking his lips cautiously. He doesn't lose the playful grin, though. He raises his hand up and slides it over to my belly button, tracing loose circles, twirling and twirling. I suck in a breath. My brain melts to fuzz, like static on a TV screen. "Okay. I'll remember. Go on." I think he can tell it's hard for me to breathe, let alone carry on a functional conversation. I retreat a breath and go on as requested.

"Well, I think we should visit a..." I remove my hand from his shirt, deciding I'll have better luck with this if I'm giving him pleasure, too. I bring my hand up to his neck and tickle right underneath his earlobe, which I know drives him crazy. He closes his eyes and makes a soft grunt or a whimper - kind of sounds like both intermixed - and nods, drawing in his bottom lip, as to say, _keep going._ "A counselor."

His eyes snap open. "A counselor? Jage, we're not even married yet," his voice loses the flirtatious tease it had seconds ago, but instead of anger, I hear confusion. "Why do we need to speak to someone?" he cups my wrist gently, holding it in his, pulling my hand away from his neck, because I don't think he can think straight with me tickling him. "Aren't you happy?"

"Yes, of course I'm happy," I bounce up and down on him with the strength of my words, feeling deflated just by the hurt look on his face. That wasn't at all what I intended for him to feel, or expected. "I'm very happy with you. I just think it's important that we speak to someone, you know, get all of it out in the open."

He stares at me strangely like he's trying to fold his face entirely. "What out in the open? Do you have anything you need to tell me?" he looks mildly concerned.

"No," I laugh softly, a nervous laugh. "There's nothing that I can think of that you need to know necessarily, but it's still important to me that we talk to someone."

"You hate therapists, I thought," he deadpans, sliding his hand up and down my wrist, still cupping it. My wrist feels thankful, as it keeps sending jolting shocks of ticklish pleasure every time he slides upward. I close my eyes, getting lost in the feeling for only a second, allowing myself this moment of clarity, then pull myself back.

"This won't be like the time we had to speak to therapists about Reid," I look down, picking at nothing on my bare leg in my sleep shorts. "And about my sister," I mumble. Morgan stops rubbing my wrist and softens, like he feels he just made a huge mistake. It's written all over his face, he feels guilty, like he himself took my sister's life away. "And anyway, I want to do this."

"Okay," he nods solemnly, then kisses my small wrist, feeling frail in his strong hold. "We can do that." I know it's out of sympathy and pity only, but I go along with it easily, as long as it gets him to go.

* * *

The doctor's office reeks of the aroma of most doctor and dental offices; it also has a faint smell of apples, which I think is the air freshener that's clipped to the wall. I make my way to the desk, while Morgan takes a seat in a chair by the waiting area reluctantly, flipping through a fishing magazine. "Hi," I say to the receptionist, as she's typing stuff on the small white keyboard. She looks up, smiles, and pushes her red-rimmed glasses closer to her eyes. "I'm Jennifer Jareau. I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Goldenton three days ago. She said she could take me and," I turn around, point to Morgan with my thumb. She glances at him, writes something down on a piece of paper. "my fiance. We're just here for the regular couple's counseling, nothing special."

She continues writing, then looks up. "What's your fiance's first and last name?" she asks me.

"Derek," I automatically start spelling it out for her. "D-E-R-E-K. Not the other way you spell Derrick, like with the 'Rick' at the end." she looks up, almost looking impatient, then crosses out the previous way she had Derek spelled. Whoops. Guess I spoke too late.

She makes a weird nose with her lips, like she has to focus extremely hard to write something down. "Last name, please?" she seems nicer now, like she keeps switching her attitude. Once friendly and easygoing, then harsh and untamed.

"Morgan," I chuckle jokingly. "You know how to spell that one, right?" she looks up, smiles dishearteningly and hands me two separate clipboards with forms and two pens, one blue, one pink; I presume because of our genders, but is this place really that tacky? Should I be accepting advice from a place this tacky?

"There are two separate forms there. One for you," she taps at it with her fake nail. "And one for your fiance. It's the standard type of form, just asking certain questions, if there is anything you'd both like brought up during the session. Nothing too personal, should be alright with the both of you." I nod.

I smile at her, say thanks, and she hardly acknowledges it. I meet Morgan at his chair and hand him his clipboard. "Fill this out," I say, handing him the pink pen. He stares at it, his macho-manliness ego being bruised.

"A pink pen? Really?" he eyes my blue one. "Why can't I use that one?"

"Does it matter?" I say, but I knew it would. Is that a negative thing? That I'm deliberately doing something to tease my fiance? What would Dr. Goldenton comment? I flash him an innocent smile, and he hesitantly begins writing with his pink pen, much to his dismay. I find myself pleased, somehow.

* * *

After filling out the forms and handing them back to the receptionist, she ushers us into the small secluded room that is Dr. Goldenton's office. It isn't long that we're sitting in the brown suede sofa that a woman, about forty-something, arrives into the room. She has auburn-colored hair and dresses old-fashioned, wearing plain pastel colors and circle-rimmed glasses. Her smile, though, is the real eye-catcher, in the amidst of her simplicity. Her smile could light up a room, it looks contagious. Looking at her beaming, you just have to smile, too.

"Hey there," she greets, extending her hand to the both of us. Morgan manages to slip his hand from his other one long enough to shake hers, then collides it back into place. He's slumped back kind of awkwardly, like he's rebelling against this whole thing, and I want to nudge him and tell him to sit up straighter, but it feels like a controlling thing to do. I could just see Dr. Goldenton scribbling _controlling _ on her little notepad. "How are you two today?"

"We're great," I say cheerfully, speaking for the both of us. I jab my elbow into his. I don't think it's that he's trying to be rude purposefully, but rather that he's just really uncomfortable with the situation in its entirety. "We're fantastic, actually. We're getting married on the 23rd."

"Wow, so soon!" she says almost cooing, looking at Morgan for some form of a reaction. He tilts his head and smiles weakly. I want to hit him so hard. I envision Dr. Goldenton shaking her head disapprovingly, her auburn hair with its many rows of layers swinging as she writes, _Aggressive. _ "How are you handling everything? Are either of you feeling any pressure, cold feet or nervousness?"

I readjust in my seat. Morgan seems to be okay with this question, but I however am not. I have been feeling pressured, extremely. But it's so hard to tell if it's the stress from planning the wedding or the stress about becoming a wife. "Is that normal?" I ask, without trying to give myself away. Morgan looks my way this time. "I mean, is it a common occurrence during engagements?"

"Oh, absolutely. It's extremely common for fiances to feel a certain amount of fear right around the nearing of the date. Some even mistaken their fear for wanting out. That isn't always the case, Jennifer," she adjusts her glasses, then writes. "Have you been feeling doubtful these days?"

I rest my arm on the armrest casually. "No, not really," I bite my lip, feeling the sting of lying. "Not particularly. Just the stress of getting everything together."

"Derek, have you been helping in the wedding planning process?" she asks this with a hint of a snicker, like she expects all grooms to immediately say no, then sprout off reasons why husbands shouldn't have to.

Morgan shakes his head, appearing slightly embarrassed by it. His cheeks even look flushed. I lean in closer, staring harder. I think he's even blushing. "No, I haven't." he admits, sounding small and faraway.

"Don't be embarrassed by it, Derek," she chuckles. His face reddens. I contain my giggling, but it slips out. He shoots me a glare, his face turning so red it's gaining a purplish hue. "Most men don't participate in the wedding planning. Most women don't want their man to, since it may feel like their taking away the specialness of it for her. Don't feel bad about it. I'm sure Jennifer doesn't mind." she looks my way, probably expecting me to object. I smile. She writes again.

"Okay, now, let's get to business," she lets go of her pad and puts both hands on her knee, that's slung over her leg. "Who's idea was it to come here?"

Morgan lets out a semblance of a snort. "My idea," I respond, sounding cowardly. "He's not so fond of it."

"Oftentimes, that's the case. Jennifer, why did you feel it was necessary to seek counseling before getting married?" she grabs a hold of her trusty notepad and pen, quizzing me.

"I just thought it'd be nice to get everything out in the open. Get to know each other better, before we jump into a lifelong commitment, you know?" I explain. I peer behind me, hoping maybe Morgan's agreeing with me; maybe he's getting it now; maybe he'll participate.

"That was a good idea," she says, and Morgan does that subtle snorting thing again. I jab his elbow one more time, never looking his way, not wanting to give her an impression that I'm controlling him. "Okay, so, what would you say you two fight about most often?"

I look Morgan's way. He looks my way. We spend quite a few seconds just staring at each other, but thinking really hard. I can see the vein protruding in his forehead, like it's pounding to the beat of his thoughts. "I guess we fight about our job the most," I decide. "We both work as FBI agents in the Behavioral Analysis Unit. The job takes up a good majority of our time, and it kind of eliminates our alone time. I also have a two year old son, who I have to make time for, as well."

"Mhm," she nods, writing away.

"I'd have to say we fight about Henry, her son, just as much," Morgan speaks up, finally joining in on the conversation.

She peels her eyes away from the paper long enough to ask, "You don't like Henry?"

Morgan turns a pale color. "No, no, I love Henry. He's a great kid, really," he pats my knee, afraid I think otherwise. "I really do love him, JJ, you know that. It's just that sometimes I feel she doesn't trust me with him, because I'm not a parent."

My throat clenches. That wasn't ever what I meant. I just didn't want him to feel weighed down with Henry, is all. He _didn't _ have to love Henry, technically. To love me, yeah, I guess he had to, but he didn't _really _ have to. Before I can defend myself, Dr. Goldenton butts in.

"In the form you filled out, Derek, didn't you say you want children?" she jots something down, then finally puts the pen down, after seemingly written a novel. "Are you planning on having children together?"

"Yes," I croak out, still feeling wounded by Morgan's irrational theory. "We're going to have children." I answer her question absentmindedly, then turn to Morgan. "Morgan, I never meant for you to feel that way. I didn't want you feeling like he was your responsibility, like he was your kid. I didn't want to put that on you so soon."

Morgan looks hurt by this; the opposite of my intention. "I know he's not my kid, JJ," he says quietly. "He's Will's, I get it. I'm not trying to replace his father, I just want to be able to do fatherly things with him."

I never knew he wanted to. Thinking back, I recall times I'd say, _Morgan, you don't have to play baseball with him. It's fine, he'll watch TV or something. _ I always thought he was offering out of politeness, like he was forced to; little did I know I was robbing both him and Henry of something special. My heart aches. "I'm sorry," I say, but it doesn't feel like enough. "I swear I didn't mean it like that."

He looks down, his hands still entwined. He doesn't say much else, but maybe exhale. But that's not considered speaking. The sound of her pen hitting the notepad brings me out of my realm of sadness and into the heart of the session again. "Can we discuss something important here?" she collapses her hands together. Morgan and I force each other, though we look drained, to face her.

"What's that?" I ask, faking interest. I just keep going back to when I'd decline Morgan's offers to be with Henry. How left out he must have felt. What had he waited so long to tell me?

"The difference between you two," she uses her hands to point to both of us, like we weren't aware of what she meant by _you two._

Morgan chuckles heartily, which is a good sign; must mean he's cheering up. "I think I know the difference, Doc," he replies with a hint of laughter. "Then again, I couldn't know for sure. I mean, I think I do, but who knows? I've only seen her unclothed once, and she didn't give me long enough-"

I slap his arm, laughing, embarrassed. He smiles at me, and I know he's not mad anymore. She looks down, all seriousness, no joking. "I mean, Derek," she says his name kind of coldly. "The difference, as in...racial differences."

My jaw falls open. I think it might have fallen off. I never really saw color when I see Morgan. I mean, sure, his dark color adds to his appeal, but I've never actually thought of us as different races. I don't see why it matters. I look at him, and he looks as clueless as me. "Why does that matter?" I ask, sounding more tentative than thrown back.

She looks down, squeezes her hands together. "I'm not against interracial dating, I'm not," she says quickly. "But I don't believe they last."

I raise my eyebrows. Morgan looks like a statue, unable to respond. I think he's just shell-shocked. "How do you mean?" I'm not sure if I should be offended or interested on hearing what she has to say. She must have a valid point, right? I mean, why else would she bring it up?

"Whites and," she gives Morgan a hard stare. "African-Americans tend to have their issues. With the slavery and given their history and whatnot. There's still bitterness brewing between our generation, and typically blacks - I mean, African-Americans - don't see eye-to-eye with whites, because of those underlined issues."

For some reason, I blurt out, "His mother is white." Which doesn't make sense, because it shouldn't matter if he's one-hundred percent black or only half-black. People are people. He doesn't have tentacles or vampire fangs or sprouts werewolf hair at a full moon. He's still a person, just with darker skin than me. I look his way, my cheeks flushing. He's remarkably still, not saying a word.

Her face loses some of it's tension. "Oh, she is?" she almost cries out, like she's about to burst out into song. "Oh, that's a relief. I mean, not a relief, I'm sorry. It's just that...oh God, I'm not trying to offend you both here, it's just that blacks are..." she looks at Morgan with empathy, then laughs. "Well, you know. I assume you lived in the ghetto."

"Yeah, I did," he nods sullenly, not saying another word. I can't tell if he's so angry he can't talk or if he's maybe even ashamed. Maybe too embarrassed to get the words out.

"Does it hurt?" I tumble the words out angrily, and they sound drenched in something, like they need to be rung out. My lips are trembling, I'm so furious. She looks at me, downright confused. "Does it hurt? Does it hurt to walk around with that stick shoved up your ass all day long?"

Morgan widens his eyes, looking very impressed. I see a hint of a grin fold at the corner of his lips. He reaches for me, tries to grab my hand. I push it away without thinking, too fired up with ammunition to let him make me back down. Dr. Goldenton fixes her glasses, adjusts her beige cardigan throw-over sweater. "I wasn't saying what you think, Jennifer, you misinterpreted me-"

"Actually, I think she's got it all understood perfectly." Morgan finally says, sternness finally evident in his voice. I reach for his hand now, jumping to my high-heeled feet.

I want to say something negative about her, something that'll make her feel less confident, like she just did to Morgan. Something that'll bruise her self-esteem. But all that comes to mind is her bad hair job, her unflattering floppy bangs, her oatmeal palette of fashion and her librarian-like glasses. Instead of sprouting off negative comments, I say, "I'm really sad I came here today," my voice has lowered into a hurt tone, more than an angry one. "I'm sad that just when I think our nation is coming together as one - finally - learning to accept each other, that _maybe_ it's possible, maybe _someday_, and then we meet someone like you. It saddens me to think I'll be raising my children in this generation."

I can't say much else, because nothing compares to the sadness I feel for Morgan. How she bruised his self-esteem, taunted him and thrown judgments around about his beliefs and his feelings and opinions, like a person's color can determine their ways of thinking. I'm so angry and bitter, signing the check, scribbling my name extra sloppily because I'm furious. I finally calm down when we get outside, and the wind of May rushes over to me, to comfort me, to cool my face. "God, I could kill her!" I shout to the sky. Morgan stands before me, hands on his hips, watching me observantly. I'm surprised he's so calm. Doesn't he want to scream at her? "Where does she get off thinking that way? Telling us we can't last in a marriage? Why? Because you have a black father? How close-minded is she! What is this? I thought people were starting to get over this."

He pulls me by the hand, over to his parked car. He reels me inside, then snuggles me close to him once I'm seated in the passenger and he's in the driver's seat. "JJ, there's always going to be people like her," he says to me, softly. He sighs sadly. "There's always going to be one person against our relationship, who think like her. You either let it bother you or you let it go."

"I can't let it go," I shake my head. "I hate that people think less of you because of your color. And think less of me because I'm marrying someone who is a different race than me. And I can't believe you didn't stand up for yourself back there. You've gone head-to-head with serial killers and you couldn't talk down a racist counselor in her grandmother's evening dress? What is that?" I release a laugh, though I honestly want to know why he hadn't defended himself.

He laughs too, then it fades into a frown. "My dad and mom dealt with people like her all of the time, and she always told me, if I were to end up with a woman who was a different color than me, that I should expect this to happen." he sighs, rubbing his face. "That's why I always dated within my race. I tried to, anyway. I thought it'd be easier, for the both of us. More acceptable, I guess."

"That isn't right." I decide, shaking my head.

"But it's the way things are. And the only way I don't let it bother me is to not let it phase me, like my mother didn't," he squeezes my hand. "As long as you can handle this crap from time-to-time. For our children, too."

I can't believe he's even having to ask. That he's even, in one way, giving me a choice to back out. Now or never. "I love you, Morgan," I lean in and kiss him, his lips soft and perfect on mine. That's what I know about Morgan. His beautiful eyes that look at me lovingly, his soft lips that kiss me just right, the way he holds me against his body like he's protecting me yet cradling me at the same time; those are the things Dr. Goldenton should have saw in Morgan, aside from his perfectly bronzed body. "What is it that Garcia calls you? Chocolate Thunder?"

He bursts out laughing, throws his head back. "Dear God."

"I love you," I coo, as the engine roars to life. "My _chocolate thunder._" I purr it into his ear seductively, and he laughs. We laugh about it all the way to the diner we stop at to eat. We laugh about it like it doesn't phase us. Because it doesn't phase me, our differences. Hey, opposites attract, right?


	14. Chapter Fourteen

**Author's note: **Big day is coming up! What would you guys like to see happen next? What would you also like to see happen on their wedding day? Thanks for reading! Reviews are appreciated- love hearing from y'all! If you have any ideas, PLEASE send them to me through private messaging - I'll try to incorporate them into the story! Thanks again, XOXO.

* * *

Tonight is my bachelorette party. I can hardly catch my breath. My house has became chaos, with color patterns, flower choices, wedding magazines askew around and about, having been there for months now. Between working and taking care of Henry, I don't think I've actually seen much of Morgan, outside of a case, that is. He's been coming over less lately, seeing as he apparently has some loose ends he has to tie up before our big day. I understand; I've got some stuff to do myself, including packing up my entire household and move into his for our new life together. Henry doesn't seem too bothered by the idea, but he's also two, so to him it just means a bigger living space and presumably more toys. I'm feeling a little overwhelmed, I'm not going to lie, especially now that I'm in my office gathering stuff together, since I have off for the next three weeks. And then of course, I'm going to resign from my career. Or that's the plan, anyway. Standing here, though, clutching files, repositioning the telephone, pushing back my chair, I feel like I'm leaving a really good friend behind. How could I just say goodbye to it so callously?

The click-clunking of high heels finds it's way into my office, then with a pair of firm knuckles knocking on the door. "Hey, JJ," Emily says, sliding in through the opened crack of the door. "Are you getting ready to leave?"

I stack another file on top of the huge pile accumulating and push it aside, sighing with distress. I've got a million and one things to do before my wedding day and despite what my best friends say and despite what _everyone _says, it's not mandatory for the bride to relax. I'm far from relaxed. I shove my hair off of my shoulders, place my hands on my hips and observe the room. "Yeah, just about..." I say absentmindedly, poking at my bottom lip indecisively, not liking the certain way the lamp is turned. "Lemme just fix this right here..."

"JJ," Emily clasps her hands together, like she's about to give me a pep talk. I might need one. Meanwhile, I adjust the lamp, twisting it from left to right to back to left, not liking it any one way. "Garcia and I were talking, and we think that we should have a bachelorette party for you tonight."

I stop fidgeting with the lamp long enough to give her a funny face. It's not necessarily that I don't like the idea of going out, getting wasted and hitting on every guy in sight just because I can - because it doesn't seem all that bad - but I'm a mother now and a soon-to-be wife and it seems a little immature, from this standpoint. "Emily," I sigh reluctantly.

"No, wait! Before you say no - which Garcia already said that you'd say - I want you to think about it. How many times are you going to get to go out and have fun and cut loose when you're at home with a two year old AND a newborn?" Emily folds her arms, her brown eyes meeting me dead center, almost daring me to decline her offer.

"It sounds fun and all, Emily, but I can't just leave Henry and go out and party," I shake my head, already making up my mind. "No. I just can't."

"Why not?" Emily gets this high-pitched almost whine in her voice, like she's on the verge of begging and pleading. "Morgan is going out with the guys. JJ, even Hotch is going to his bachelor party - come on!"

"Morgan is having a bachelor party?" I ask incredulously. Which, I shouldn't be all that surprised, since I can't really see Morgan _not_ having one either. Maybe that's why he's been so distracted, planning his shindig.

Emily nods confidently, jutting her chin out. "And you're having a party too, no way out of it, honey," Emily smiles at me and grabs my wrist, pulling my arms apart as they're folded hesitantly on my chest. "Now go home, find yourself a babysitter and get dressed into something ultra-sexy, ultra-slutty."

I pause. "I don't own anything ultra-sexy or ultra-slutty," I inform her. I can think of a slinky black dress hidden somewhere in my closet from my years of dating random guys, before Will, before parenthood, but I'm not even sure if it would still fit or if I even still have it.

She sighs, looking disappointed in me. "I'll find you something then," she wiggles her eyebrows, getting this wicked grin on her face. "Trust me. I've got _plenty _ of appropriate choices."

"Actual appropriate attire or appropriately slutty given the nature of this event?" I ask, sounding all too inquisitive like Reid. I still wish somehow I could tell Reid what is going on with me and Morgan, just to see his jaw drop and his face flush. Would he be jealous of Morgan scoring me? Would he be excited? I'd give anything to see his reaction. But then again, on the other hand, if it weren't for Reid's passing, would Morgan and I even speak to each other outside of work?

Emily's eyebrows dance devilishly on her face, following by a cocky smirk. "I'll be over with Garcia at around six WITH a dress for you to wear," she starts stepping toward the door, already deciding my plans for me. "No changing your mind."

"You're controlling," I say to her, upon her exiting.

She whirls around excitedly. "You're going to have FUN."

* * *

Turns out, that black dress I thought up in my head must've been something I owned in college or maybe I dreamed it up, but there is no slinky black dress in my closet. At least not anymore. There's button-up shirts, work pants, work blazers, tight jeans, basic tees, but nothing ultra-sexy or ultra-slutty. Nothing to mark my last night of single freedom. Exasperated already, I close my closet doors and check my watch, waiting for the babysitter or Emily to get here. I hear the front door open. I'm in a cotton loose robe and bunny slippers, and Henry is taking his nap. I feel the farthest thing from sexy, and I expect Emily to give me a speech about that. I slump my way into the living room.

"Emily, I don't feel sexy tonight," I say, heading toward the door. I'm surprised to see it's Morgan instead, hanging his jacket up on the coat hanger. At least he stopped throwing it on the floor.

He stares at me, then chuckles. "I don't blame you," he walks over to me, pulls on the tie at my robe and reels me in, until our bodies connect. "That robe _is_ the farthest thing from sexy."

"Ha-ha," I pull him close to me, until his heart beats hard into my chest. His body feels warm and strong and safe, and I relax my head on his shoulder. I'm struck with the thought of why he never brought up his bachelor party to me. Was he not going to tell me? I'm trying so hard to trust Morgan, assuming that he's not a playboy anymore, but I find myself wondering what he's going to be doing tonight. Or who he's going to be doing it with. "Emily and Garcia are forcing a bachelorette party on me. I have to go."

He's burying his face in my neck, still clutching the tie on my robe. "You don't want to?" he asks.

"I don't know," his cologne smells fantastic tonight. He smells amazing, looks amazing. I think he even trimmed his goatee. Gee, he really went all out tonight. Must want to impress someone at his party. I try not to be weighed down with undeserving jealousy. "I'm just not much into going out now since Henry."

He nods. "That's understandable," he whispers, unloosening the tie on my robe. "So, what's under here?" his lips are curling up, as he's slowly unveiling me in front of him little by little.

I pull the tie back hard, until the robe tightens around me, concealing me. "Nothing," I say back, nudging his hands off. "Emily is coming over, you know."

"Mhm." he laughs in my ear, still fighting with the tie, and now, my hands. "Just lemme see before I go."

Normally I'd like to tease him more, but he's going out tonight, probably to see tons of strippers with gorgeous bodies and then to come home to me, the woman that won't even let him feel her up. How tempted he's going to be. I'm now burning with jealousy and disgust that I want to do anything to keep him from feeling the need to stray, so I untie my robe for him seductively slow and pull it away, long enough for him to see me in my black lace bra and the thin material of my white underwear. His eyes stop on me, making my entire body ache; the way he's looking at me, with such love and lust and desire, it feels hard not to let him take me altogether.

"You didn't have to, if you didn't want to..." he insists quietly, then reaches forward and pulls me closer by my waist, running his fingertips up and down my side, meeting my hip bone to my rib cage. My body shudders every time he goes up, then down. Up, down, up down; my heart beats louder in my chest, so loud I think he might hear it.

Tomorrow we're getting married. Tomorrow he can do whatever he wishes to me, and tomorrow it'll feel perfect. But right now, he wants it. Right now, he feels like he needs to have something, apparently. And tonight, if he wanted, he could get it, without me. "You can touch me," I whisper in his ear, leaning forward, pressing my body just slightly against his. "If you want. You can touch me."

"Hm?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. Apparently he's used to the rules I'd laid down for him months ago. _Nothing too personal until we're married. I know you don't want to wait, but please? It's important to me. _Now I'm practically letting him have his way with me. I mean, why not? It's better me than with some girl at the party tonight. "Are you sure? JJ, I thought it wasn't allowed."

I feel embarrassed hearing him say that. How selfish of me not to allow him to have me during our engagement. How impatient he must have become. How much he must want sex. How much he deserves it, even. And most importantly, above all, how much he could have as much of it as he wants tonight. Without me ever really knowing for sure. "I know, but you can. I-I want you to."

He drives his hand up my thigh, up my hip, up my ribcage, then tugs at the underwire on my bra, his other hand fiddling with the tiny white bow on the front of my underwear. His hand feels hot on my skin. The material of my underwear is so thin and silky it feels barely visible, and I swear it's beginning to sweat under the warmth of his hand. A part of me feels like whispering, _Keep going. Go lower. _ And another part of me feels like saying, _You really can't wait one more day? _ He stops touching me, retreating his hands back to where they're most safe - his pockets.

"JJ, we have one more day," he chuckles, pulling his hand out of his pocket to touch my face. "I can wait. I know it's important to you. Besides, I've waited this long, what's one more night?"

I nod. And then the strangest thing happens: I feel rejected. I tie my robe back up as he walks into my bedroom, ruffling through my closet for some of his clothes that wound up here overtime. I sit on the living room sofa, waiting for Emily. I can't explain why I feel so downhearted by his choice not to further me when I said he could go ahead and do it, even though that's really what I wanted him to do. How confusing love is. Is this what marriage will be like?

Emily pops her head in the doorway, not bothering to knock. "Hey, JJ, there you are!" she's clutching a dress in a bag, dangling it by the hanger, careful not to let it drag. "I've got some lovely choices for you. Garcia is in the car, reapplying her makeup. The green eyeshadow she had on today was apparently not 'sultry' enough, so she's switching to red." She plops down beside me, displaying the bagged dress on the coffee table. "Why aren't you ready?"

"I don't know about this, Em-"

"Don't even try backing out now, JJ, come on. You'll have fun, I swear," she pats my hand twice reassuringly.

"Yeah, you'll have fun, babe," Morgan insists, stepping out into the hallway, dressed in his leather jacket, basic tee, dark jeans, bad-ass boots. He looks incredibly sexy and dangerous; I look frumpy. "Keep telling her, Prentiss."

"Morgan, you're here?" she glances at me funny, like I was supposed to announce it. "And you're going out too, right? To your little party with the boys?"

Morgan's eyes land on me for a second, as he's fixing the sleeves on his jacket. For a second, I think he remembers that he neglected to tell me, but thinks better of it to mention it. "Yeah, that's right, just the guys tonight," he sends a sympathetic half-smile my way. I don't respond back with any sort of gesture but the turn of my head. "You girls have fun. Don't get too rowdy."

Emily smiles wickedly at him. "We'll try not to," she slaps my knee. "Though I don't know with this one." She's trying to be funny, or maybe even trying to worry him, but it's complete bullshit, because Morgan knows, and Emily knows, I'm not exactly one for dangerously fun parties.

"Alright, take care of my girl," he leans down, kisses my cheek. He leans forward like he's inching for my lips, but I'm being cold right now, so he doesn't push it. He pats Emily's shoulder and heads for the door. "I'll see you both tomorrow. I love you, JJ, be careful. Goodnight Emily, have fun." and he's gone.

Emily pats her knees, focusing on me, like she can immediately tell something's bothering me. I think she's going to ask, but instead she shakes my arm and says, "Let's go get you dolled up, so we can gawk at naked male strippers and drink martinis until daylight!"

I'm so glad she didn't ask. I wouldn't know what to say.

* * *

"Are you experiencing anything yet?" Emily asks me, in a very slurred way of speaking. If by experiencing something, she means a drunken-like sensation, then no. I can still feel my feet, and I don't feel like I'm walking on air, so that's a good sign. But my head is beginning to feel a little warm and light and for a second I thought it might have took off and flown away. But that's just a buzz, I'm nowhere near as drunk as Emily, or Garcia for that matter.

Garcia, using her chipped red pinky nail to pluck out a piece of something out of her teeth, says to me, "Where are the strippers?" she focuses her compact mirror to just the right angle, sending flashing lights around when it lands on the lights on the ceiling. "I came here for the strippers. I want dirty, hot, male strippers!"

I take another shot. Because, why not? My head feels fuzzy immediately once it's hit with the alcoholic consumption and my legs feel a little shaky, like I'm walking on a ground that's cracking in half. I hop off of my stool, grab the edge of the counter to steady myself and once I find my balance, I wobble my way to the bathroom. Emily tugs at my arm. "Where are you going?" she screams in my ear. I don't think she realizes how loud she's being. "We need another round!"

"I need to throw it back up," I say under my breath, feeling slightly nauseated, seeing as I'm not usually a drinker.

"I think we need a taste of the brownies over there," Garcia points out, grabbing both me and Emily's wrists in each hand to drag us off. She haphazardly pushes us on the couch next to the table with the brownies, and sits in between us.

"Garcia, you know what's in these." I tell her, trying to look directly at her face, but the world kind of feel like it's moving around us, while we're sitting perfectly still. Maybe it really is.

"No, what?" she asks dumbfounded, then uses her index finger and thumb to scoop up a brownie and takes a big bite. Emily bursts out laughing in hysteria, like it's suddenly the funniest thing in the world and she's high, also.

I shake my head. I could tell her, yes, but she's devouring it already and there's really no point. Emily grabs one next. "Emily!" I say commandingly, hissing it.

"What?" she shrugs innocently, nibbling on the corner. "It smells good. I'll only have a little."

"You don't know how much pot is in there," I remind her, very parent-like. I feel like the only adult here. But suddenly the tequila shot I had a couple minutes ago turns my brain to fuzz all over again and my rational attitude is beginning to create a thin line between sane and insane. I'm somehow seeping over to insane. I hold my head to keep it from falling off.

"Try some," Emily urges, splitting her brownie in half, to pass it over to me. I fan it away. "Come onnn, JJ, you're getting married tomorrow! Live a little!"

I wave my hand at it like it's diseased. "No thanks," I say, feeling very Above the Influence right about now.

Emily shoves it closer to me. "Just try some, okay?" she asks quietly, as Garcia hops off to dance in the middle of the dance floor. The music is buzzing around us, the world is vibrating. Flickering lights are everywhere. I can hardly think at all. "Please?"

I grab the brownie. It's damp and cold and creamy in my hand. "Peer pressure," I mumble.

"Thank you." she smiles, takes a big chunk out of her half and chews proudly. I reluctantly take a larger bite than I wanted. It actually tastes pretty good. It tastes normal, actually. You'd never guess it's a marijuana-filled brownie. It tastes perfect enough for a bakery.

* * *

The whole world is spinning and dancing along to the heavy beat of the R&B song blaring from the speakers clinging to the high corners of the club. All that keeps me from falling off of the Earth is to listen to the music beating vibrationally in my chest. For some reason, I can't stop laughing. I find myself collapsed on the bathroom floor, underneath the sink, laughing my ass off. The tile looks like it's taking different shapes, twisting and turning, bending into something similar to a snake. The tiles lift up and away, shooting out of the small square window too high to look out of. The tequila and magic brownies aren't sitting right with me, and I feel like I might faint. I'm smart enough to know I should stand up and make a getaway to the toilet, but the smarter part of me knows I won't be able to. I can almost make out my reflection in the silver stall door, but somehow it doesn't look like me. Misshaped with sharp edges and poor focus. I can't be sure if it's the drugs making me look so unreal or if that's really me; pale, slumping and weak.

I crawl out from under the sink long enough to stand on my three-inch shoes. I manage to stand long enough to rest my weight on the sink, looking up into the mirror. Everything in front of me looks sharpened. My eyes look bluer, the circles under my eyes look like they're rimmed with a purple marker and my cheeks look like the cherry that was swimming in my drink. The rims of my eyes appear as red as my cheeks, and I can't help but laugh. I laugh until my stomach hurts, until my brain feels like it's popping. I imagine my brain cells popping into pieces, making noises like Pop Rocks.

Something squeaks behind me. Maybe it's the door opening, maybe it's something breaking behind me. I look down at the sink, closing my eyes, the sound of footsteps entering the bathroom takes me away. I can feel the presence of someone standing right next to me. I'm too out of it to bother paying them any attention. A soft, warm hand places on my shoulder. I pinch my eyes open long enough to see it's not a female's hand, but a man's. The stirring in my stomach makes it impossible to give a damn about the bathroom confusion.

"Notice something missing?" I say weakly to him, swallowing continuously to keep from getting sick. I think I might throw up; sweat is pooling on my face. I should never have came tonight. But the part of my brain that's swamped in drugs and alcohol tells me otherwise. "This is a ladies room."

"I know that," he says to me, very politely. "I just wanted to make sure that you're okay. I saw you stumble in here."

I actually thought I walked in here rather gracefully, hardly letting anyone know how crappy I really felt. How my legs felt like Legos disconnecting, how my arms felt like they were glued on and my head felt impossible to keep track of. How this is my first time ever tampering with drugs and how I strongly dislike it. Is my feet still on the ground? I can't be sure. Maybe I did stumble in here. Hell, I could have got down and crawled, for all I can remember. "I'm alright, yeah," I say to him, but the sweat pouring down my face tells a different story.

"Are you sure?" he touches my damp cheek, making me look at him. I creak open my eyes, but they feel too heavy to keep open. "You look really tired. Maybe I should get you home."

I grumble to him, trying my best to shake him off, but the world is beginning to turn to different colors. The lights in the bathroom flicker, but maybe it's only flickering to me. The silver everywhere is beginning to become too bright, and I can't focus on any one thing. I block my hand in front of my eyes, shielding away the burning light. I'm going to faint, I'm going to faint. I stumble backwards; he grasps my back and holds me upright, holding my face in his hands next. "Did you have too much to drink?" he asks me. His words sound so faraway.

"Did I drink too much?" I stream together. The words seem like they hardly make sense. "Yeah, I guess." I tell him.

"Is there somebody I can call?" he asks me. He stares hard into my eyes. I open my eyes long enough to decide he's got the greenest but bluest eyes I've ever seen. I reach for them. He blinks reflexively.

"You have the prettiest green eyes," I whisper to him. "They're blue, too."

"Yes," he smiles still holding my face, hot and wet in his hands. "They are. Blue and green, I mean. Not pretty, necessarily."

"But they are," I nod slightly. I let my eyes close. "They're very pretty."

"Thanks," he wraps his arm around my back, basically holding me up. He leads me back to the sink. "They're certainly not like yours, JJ."

Panic rises in my chest, filling my throat whole with something hot and unfriendly. Maybe it's the panic, but somehow the panic forms into something physical and I throw up, in the sink. All my contents of tonight's bachelorette party spill out and wander down the drain, as I try to piece together some sort of normalcy. Why is there red in my vomit? Oh yeah, the cherries. Why am I throwing up? Oh yeah, from drinking and doing drugs. Why is he being so nice to me? Oh yeah, he's a nice guy. How does he know my name? That is where I land on a dead end road.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

**Author's note: **Bringing some old stuff in from my other story, the prequel of this, _Wrongfully Accused._ If you haven't read it yet, it might help for this chapter (and chapters to come) to make more sense by reading that story, as well.

I definitely want JJ and Morgan to have a blissful happy marriage with a child of their own, but come on now - gotta give 'em hell first! :P Reviews are what I look forward to, so please, if it's not too much of a burden, let me know what you think.

* * *

"You know my name?" It seems like more of a question than a statement, but really I'm not sure which one it is. For a second I feel paranoid that my feet can't find the ground, that forever I'll be floating on this airy cloud I've found myself on, but then I look down and behind the fogginess cover over my hazed eyes, I realize my feet are actually touching the ground. His hand - this man's hand, this stranger I've never encountered - tightens his grip on my arm, pulling me closer with gentle force, until his mouth is close enough to release short breaths into my ear. His breath melts on my earlobe, feeling hot and sweaty. I feel like if I close my eyes, I'll slip away, into this different place I've been drifting off into since I ate that drug-filled brownie. I'd seen Emily and Garcia long enough, before I made my getaway in this bathroom, to know that they were not acting like me. They were not flying around, or stumbling, or ready to throw up. They were laughing, dancing and managing on two solid pairs of feet. I'm swimming in an invisible body of water, slowly sinking me into a pit of endless nothing.

Perhaps the brownie I had taken contained too much marijuana. Then again, I'd shared with Emily. Perhaps my one half did. I've never taken drugs, so this is all new to me. Maybe I'm supposed to be floating away. Maybe I'm supposed to be sick to my stomach. Maybe I'm supposed to faint right here. How would I know any better? I was a good girl in high school. I was a good girl just two hours ago. "Yeah, I know your name," the man says nonchalantly, swinging his other arm around my back to hoist me up on the sink. I feel so light sitting up, like it's straining every muscle in my body to keep me sitting upright at all. He touches my cheeks. He feels so faraway.

"Can you hear me?" he shakes my face a little. I crack open my eyes. His blue-green eyes stare deeply into mine; he's concerned. "JJ, listen to my voice. You need to stay awake for me."

His words sound sensible; they make sense somehow, but then they come back to me uneven, like patches are missing. I can't keep my eyes open; I can't stay awake, especially not for him, I don't even know who he is. "I don't feel good," I mumble to him. "I don't feel good at all."

"You obviously had taken too much of something," he tells me. But that isn't true. I hadn't eaten much of the brownie, and nobody I know is acting this way. They're not inching off the edge of a cliff. They're not ready to die. They're living freely and partying like it's the millennium all over again. "But giving in to the drug is only going to hurt you. Dammit, JJ, I need you awake."

"Why?" my mouth feels dry. Maybe from throwing up. I almost forgot I even threw up to begin with if it weren't for the colorful present staring me down in the sink, glaring at me cautiously, making my throat feel ticklish and ready to give me backlash.

"Why do I need you awake?" he asks me, very slowly, like if not, I won't understand. Smart man. I nod slowly, like I've already lost him. Between the tiny slits in my eyes that allow me to see behind my eyelids - as far as I'm authorized to open them, seeing as how my eyelids feel like fifteen pound weights on my face; much too hard to keep open - I see he's smirking with pleasure. He rests his hand beside my thigh on the cold porcelain sink, keeping his other hand placed contentedly on my cheek. He makes this soft noise, and puts both hands under my arms, to bring me off of the sink, back down to the cloud I was previously standing on, where my legs feel wobbly and my feet feel floaty. "Because I need you awake for this."

He begins loosening my blazer, button by button. They snap open with ease for him, which kills me, because it took forever and a day to get them all buttoned in the right order. Once the last button is slipped through the last hole, he slides it off of me and it crumbles to my feet, wounded. I should react, how I should hit him, fight him off, stand my ground. But I feel nothing. It seems impossible to bother moving an inch in hesitance to his touch, seeing as the slightest movement seems out of reach. I could slap him, I could tell him to stop. It just seems impossible. I'm a frozen statue, standing here for his liking, allowing him to observe me or play with me as much as he wants. I feel so dirty as he attempts to pull me out of my shirt. I flinch a little automatically, but I think he gets that I'm not going to be too hard for him. He pulls me closer, his body warm on my bare stomach. My shirt falls next to my blazer sullenly.

"You really don't remember me?" He tucks his arms around my back, like he's protecting me. I finally start flinching, trying to wiggle my way out of his embrace. He's barely trying to contain me, but he's got me wrapped in so deep. That's how weak I am. I can't muster up a fight at all. I whine and whimper almost inaudibly, tears filling my eyes in pure frustration and fear. How ironic this is, really. I turn down romance with my future husband and I'm getting it unwillingly from a stranger I apparently met before. He leans in to kiss my neck, like showering me with kisses is going to change my mood. Maybe I'll undress myself the rest of the way. I might as well, seeing as I'm not stopping him, either.

He pulls back when he realizes I'm not going to let him kiss me. "What's wrong?" he says to me, stroking my hair. "Am I hurting you?" I whimper again. I try to pull my face as far away from his as I can. He begins toying with my belt, assuming that it's a better cooperator better than me. "There ya go, nice and easy." he coaches to my belt, as it slips through the loops and clatters to the ground. He drops kisses on my shoulder; I get down on my knees, as they've become too shaky and uneasy for me to rely on them to hold me up. I force myself to look up, crane my eyes through the blinding ceiling light. He's smirking, even bigger than before. "Taking the initiative?" he asks cockily.

I shake my head slowly, unable to defend myself with words, much less actions. I fall on my piles of clothing, resting my head somewhere on my shirt and blazer, my belt poking into my side. I bring my knees up to me, hugging myself, closing my eyes, letting myself drift off on my cloud; jump off of the cliff; fly away; wherever it is that I'm at.

* * *

Water drips above me. From the ceiling, I think. Once it drips on my eyelid, somehow cooling my entire face; then another time drips right above my lip. I'm in the exact position as how I'd fainted, but now I've got a shirt on, and it's not even my shirt. It's a loose white tank top, and it smells like grease from restaurants. It takes me a second to realize that my wrists are tied together with black cloth, and my ankles are restrained, too. It's easier to come to now that the drugs have wore off. I guess I should be feeling lucky that I'm alive. Rather, I'm more confused than before. I use my ab muscles to bring myself up, with zero help from my hands or feet. I move up to the wall and lay my head against it, to decide what's dripping overhead. "It's the air conditioner," a male's voice tells me, reading my thoughts. He's dressed differently than the man I remembered undressing me in the bathroom, but it's definitely the same guy. We're also not at the bar anymore; we're in a living room. From the looks of it, it's just a normal, plain ole house. Nothing you'd expect from a psychopath. But first glances don't show you into a person's soul, either.

"How do you know my name?" I ask him. I look down at my small, frail ankles knotted together; my dirty jeans; his loose-fitting tank top with water stains from the AC's dripping. I don't ask what he did to me during my blackout. Maybe I don't want to know.

He's actually attractive. With his short brown hair and scruffy facial hair, and his clean wardrobe. What I'm saying is, he doesn't have to resort to raping women and tying them in their living rooms. He's good-looking enough to get women the right way. But rape is never a sexual thing, anyway; it's about power, dominance. It scares me to think how many times he dominated over me while I was sleeping. "JJ, look, I didn't hurt you technically," he says to me, taking a seat on the arm rest of the couch in front of me. "I didn't give you any drug. Your friends did, I guess. It just so happened it worked out for me."

"You got what you wanted from me, right? So why take me here? I was so drugged I couldn't make anything out; you could have made a clean break." Somehow I know telling him this won't change his mind. I'm no profiler, but it doesn't take skills in criminology to realize that it's pretty hard to reason with a sicko - especially unarmed. And tied up.

"I actually didn't get what I wanted," he says. He stands up, pulls out a box from a top shelf and slides it down. He slams it down beside my feet. He watches me, waits for me to read the front newspaper articles inside the cardboard box. I peer inside. Reid's suicide story fills the front cover of Quantico's local newspaper. I'd seen this article a hundred times in passing. Somehow I'd guessed that this had something to do linked with Reid's death. No matter how many times Morgan and I think we're officially done with it, someone pops into our lives to reassure us that we haven't won. It seems like defending Reid and saving our own lives has become more of a job than the BAU.

Underneath the photo of Reid in his FBI vest is quotes from the team. There's a brief quote from me, sarcastically stating that the investigators were moronic and weren't pursuing the case well enough. Which, I still believe I was right on. I shrug my shoulders, meeting my kidnapper square in the eye. "So?"

"So, what do you think?" he asks.

"It was a long time ago," I say casually, flipping my hair aside by swinging my head to the left. "I think everybody needs to move on already. I have." Not exactly true, but I'm trying.

"Look, I have information on Reid," he swallows, lowering his tone, like someone might overhear. I lean in closer. "Information you'll find very important."

"You're bullshitting," I snap at him. "You're a sick pervert who's keeping me tied up and did God knows what to me in the-"

"Shut the hell up, okay?" he snaps back, grabbing my arm. "I only tied you up so you'd listen to me for a goddamn second before smacking me around. I'm telling you, Reid is alive."

"I saw them put his casket underground, douche-bag," I say to him, trying to yank my arm back. Even sober, even with adrenaline and fury racing through my veins, he's too strong to avoid. "I saw him in his basement dying. He was dead. I know it. I checked his pulse."

"Did you check it good enough? Your hands were trembling. You weren't even paying attention, you were so taken back by it all."

"You were there?" I ask him. But then I think about it, and really, somebody didn't have to be there to assume that's what went down. Naturally anyone goes into shock mode when they witness someone (someone they love, especially) bloody and dying on the floor. Their brain just doesn't react like normal. "You're so full of shit. I don't believe you."

"Look, I'm going to untie you," he leans forward, to my ankles, as he slowly loosens the knot on the black cloth binding my legs together. "But you can't lose it, alright? I'm here to help you. And I'm sorry, about the bathroom."

I let him untie my ankles. I even turn around for him to untie my wrists. But quietly I say, "I have two questions for you."

"Go ahead," he says, equally as quiet; but somehow, more scared.

"Who are you?"

He pauses. "It'll make sense later." The tie comes undone. My wrists throb and instantly flash numb and tingly upon the release. "Second question?" He gathers the black cloths, probably for later use. On me.

"What did you do to me in the bathroom?"

He doesn't respond. He grabs the box, piles the cloths inside and carries it back to the shelf. "Come on, JJ," he says, reaching down for me to take his hand. "I've got something for you. It's about Reid."


	16. Chapter Sixteen

**Author's note: **Sorry for the excessively long storytime part, but I wanted to get it all out there, and the only way it felt possible is to start from the very beginning. I know there are still quite a few unanswered questions. I'll get there.

I want to say thank you for being incredibly patient and supportive with me during my VERY long hiatus! I hope this chapter is worth the wait.

* * *

Do you think Blake is telling the truth?

* * *

He takes my hand in his and leads me into a backroom. Immediately I get enveloped by an astoundingly unpleasant smell. Instinctively I back up, fan the air. "That's awful," I croak out. He puts pressure on my hand, keeps me walking; ignores my comment. I'm keenly aware of how ridiculous I'm being; following someone who kidnapped me. But do I have a choice? With my free right hand, I tug at the hem of his dirty tank top swimming on me. It has grease stains on the stomach and wet spots on the chest. It smells like gas and fumes and oil. You'd think I'm a mechanic. I touch my scalp. It's warm, wet and feels dirty. I have so many things to ask him. Then Morgan comes into mind. He must be panicking. Then again, he won't even notice I'm gone. He's at his bachelor party right now. Presumably getting drunk, partying. I imagine he's having a blast. And tomorrow. Tomorrow is my wedding day.

"What's your name?" I ask him. We reach a tall, metal door. He pushes it open. It creaks noisily and scares me. It doesn't want to budge too much. He uses his steel-toed boot to shove it open the rest of the way, and trails me along with him, wordlessly. "Why won't you just tell me what your name is?"

"Hold on," he lets go of my hand, shuts the metal door behind us. It screeches like a knife sliding on a glass plate. I cringe. It sounds horrible. He locks it. I try not to be terrified. I find myself in the corner, huddled up closely, hugging my knees. I'm finally realizing the seriousness of this situation. Somehow I neglected it before. I try to calm myself; I imagine Morgan holding me. We survived so much when we were searching for Michael. I can survive this, too. But maybe I survived all of it because Morgan was with me. I can almost imagine Morgan's hand on me. Almost. I slowly begin rocking back and forth, my eyes closed.

"You don't have to be that way," his voice sounds farther away from me. His boots clunk their way over to me, and I feel a presence beside me suddenly. I open my eyes. He's sitting beside me, on the floor, in the corner. His legs are spread out and he looks winded. His eyes look strangely familiar to me this close-up. "I'm not going to touch you."

I blink at his eyes. They're beautiful. Really something. They resemble something or someone to me...I can't remember who. "You already did, didn't you?" I ask. I'm trembling. I'm so cold. I hug my arms. He begins slipping off his dark-green button-up shirt that's layered over a plain black T-shirt. He hands it to me, sighing. I pause. I'm not sure what he wants me to do. "Here," he shakes it. "Take it. Put it on. You're cold."

I take it, slide it on. "You don't answer me," I tell him, getting an attitude. "You never answer me with anything I ever ask you."

"Because I'll tell you one thing at a time," he shifts in his seating position. Puts his elbows on his knees. "If I unload everything all at once, you'll get mind-boggled. What do you want to know first?"

Everything. I need to know everything. He exhales softly, looks at me sincerely. I find myself finding comfort in the way he's looking at me, as strange as that sounds. At the same time, the feeling of my guard coming down worries me. I inch away from him, just for breathing room. His shirt fills me with warmth from his body heat and from the thick material.

"Why did you begin undressing me in the bathroom?" Let's start there. I need to know.

He closes his eyes, shakes his head slowly. "It looked bad, I know," he takes off his cap, runs his fingers through his hair, distressed. "I didn't touch you once you blacked out, I promise. I carried you to the car and brought you here. Honestly." He raises his hand sincerely.

"Why did you do it, though?" I prod. I can't settle for that. That's not even an excuse.

He sighs, stretches his legs out again restlessly. "Look, Jennifer- I mean, JJ," I furrow my eyebrows at him. "I'm Blake. Remember?" Yes, I remember Blake. Outside of the cabin when we caught Michael. This doesn't look like Blake. I look harder into his eyes. But those are his eyes.

He rolls his eyes. That Blake had dark, curly hair. This Blake has short blonde hair. Like Michael's hair color. "It was a wig that day, alright?" he shrugs, like it's no big deal. "I had to look different that day."

"You're Blake?" I exclaim. I'm fuming. I trusted Blake. I thought he wanted to help. I thought he knew nothing about the situation. "You were so nice to me-"

"I'm a nice guy!" he shouts in defense, throwing his hands up in the air. "I'm Trevor, okay? I'm Michael's brother."

Trevor? My head is spinning. I touch the wall behind me to make sure it's just my imagination screwing with me and it's not really moving. Trevor, Trevor, Trev- oh, yes. Michael's dead brother. "Wait, Michael's deceased brother? He said he died-"

"He did." I look at him like I don't remember ever being this lost before. I don't think I have been. "Then I became Blake."

"You lost me," I say truthfully. I slide down further on the floor and cradle myself. I just want to sleep. I don't want this anymore. I hug my knees to my chin and squeeze myself until it hurts.

He slides closer to me. "I'll start from the beginning, alright?"

I nod. That's all I can do.

* * *

_My parents told Michael I died when I was six. I didn't die. My father was molesting me. Alright, so I admit it. I know it sounds cliche, but it was happening. I didn't understand it. My mother caught him one night. They fought for hours. Michael was only four at the time. I remember being in my bed, hugging myself like you are right now, scared to death. I remembered all of the things he'd done to me - although I don't now - but I couldn't understand why it was so wrong. But it felt wrong. I remember them fighting forever; it felt endless. Eventually my mom came into my bedroom, said my dad was leaving for good. I cried for hours. I loved him, you know? I couldn't understand what he was doing to me. I couldn't understand why it was so wrong. Soon my mom remarried, who she refers to as Michael's biological father. Michael hadn't really known any better growing up._

I shift a little, let go of my legs. "How do you know all of this if they think you're dead?" I ask him. He shushes me. He'll get there.

_I started rebelling very soon after, even at just six years old. I was seeing a therapist because they were worried my naive mind couldn't handle the repercussions that childhood molestation often brought. I started acting out, like the therapist warned my folks. My mom couldn't handle it. She gave me up to my uncle, just letting go of me entirely. She couldn't face the fact that her husband - the only man she ever loved - that he touched me. She was denying it to herself. My uncle was a bad guy, you know? He tried, but he had problems with cocaine. When I got older, about ten years old, I visited my parents when my uncle drove me there one time. They told me they told Michael that I had died. I let Michael believe that, for years. One night I broke into their house when my uncle told me they were going on vacation with some kid they knew. I went through some things, got to know my family through items. I knew Michael through his notebooks. Stuff he read, stuff he wrote. I didn't like who I saw. He reminded me of my father._

I lay flat on my back, listen to Blake carefully. I find myself feeling horrible for him, but I try not to care too much. I'm very aware that this could be total crap.

_One night I met up with my mom and stepfather. I was fourteen by then. I told them stuff I found out about Michael; how he was troubled. They didn't buy it. They lost it on me. Well Michael's stepfather really loved Michael and said that if I kept coming around, they'd call the police, have me arrested for breaking and entering. They've get me for other charges too; I don't remember what he used against me. Probably something involving my drunken uncle. I just let them be after that. I was scared of him. I didn't want to rock the boat. But I knew who Michael was. Years before all of this._

_As time went on, I got to know my brother. For real. He worked at this restaurant ten miles from my house. I went there a lot, just to get to know him. He talked a lot about Spencer, being like his brother, his best friend. I felt obligated to protect my brother from turning into my dad. It doesn't make sense, but I'm the older brother, you know? I felt like I had to do something. So I got to know Michael, and through Michael, I got to know Spencer._

_I told Spencer one time that Michael was a bad guy. I let him in on stuff I'd read. Spencer said he thought that about him often, too. I told him that he needed to stop being so close to him. I knew what Michael was capable of. The cruel things my father was; maybe worse. Spencer must have took my advice to heart, because not too long after, he went off to the FBI and lost contact with them entirely. I was happy, you know? I felt I'd done the right thing. Now that Spencer was out of the picture, I could talk to Michael; tell him the truth. Before I could, Michael sheltered off entirely. He didn't want to talk to me or anyone else. Losing Spencer hurt him bad. I thought I lost him for good. Eventually I moved on too, feeling guilty for ripping my brother of that one thing. I felt awful._

_Then there was stuff going on around town. Little things like random stabbing wounds in alleyways. No deaths yet, but stuff like that. I immediately thought back to Michael. I told myself it wasn't him. But it went on. Little stuff like that. It grew into bigger stuff. Slit wrists leading to deaths. I knew it was Michael. I knew it was only a matter of time before he got to Spencer. I had to stop him. Maybe I felt like this was my way of stopping my father. I don't know. I just knew I had to do something._

_I followed Michael around for a while, for about three months. The stuff around town continued, but as far as I knew, Michael wasn't responsible. So I stopped. I let him be, again. I started living my own life._

_One day I went into the restaurant. I hadn't gone in months. Michael was different. Happy, talkative. He hugged me. It felt nice being there with him. He was good again. We talked for hours. He said he had to leave work early; had lunch plans with an old friend. I didn't think much of it. But halfway home, I understood. He was meeting Spencer. And the Michael that was nice, was happy to see him. But the Michael that was like my father wasn't going to forgive him for leaving. I had no idea where they'd gone for lunch, so I broke into my parent's home again through the basement and ransacked the place until I found both Spencer's home address in Virginia and then I found other stuff. Weapons, stuff stored on Spencer. I knew what he was planning._

_I waited up. Hidden in the basement. Michael came home, with no Spencer. Michael wouldn't just kill him. So I flew to Virgina._

I sit up. "This is an awful lot to do for someone you don't even know," I say to him, unconvinced.

Blake frowns at me. "I know," he looks down, almost embarrassed. "Like I said, I just felt I had to stop him. I thought I could change him. He didn't have to be my dad."

_I knew Spencer's address. I knew it was only a matter of time. I called Michael one night, pretended I was still back home. Asked him if he wanted to hang out. Michael politely said no, that he had to fly somewhere with a friend. He said he'd be home in a week. I told him I'd love to see him next week. I knew what he was doing. I just could feel it. After all, it's what my father would have done._

I inhale. "Then what happened?"

_I waited outside Spencer's. Until 3 AM. The police noticed my car and questioned me. I was sent home. I was convinced Michael wasn't striking that night. I fell asleep for two hours. Then I woke up, panicked. I thought I missed him. I drove there and there it was. Sirens, cops, everywhere. Madness. I pulled over and puked everywhere. I could have stopped it. I was right there. I followed them to the hospital and waited in the waiting room while the police were interrogating you guys. I told them I was Spencer's brother. I couldn't just let him die. They wound up reviving him. I bargained with the nurse and doctor there. I begged them that he was in grave danger if anyone knew he survived. They told me they were breaking policy by lying, et cetera. I promised them that a life was at stake. It an hour and a half of some serious begging and pleading and a little threatening, and they decided they'd lie. I took Spencer with me._

I shoot up, hard on my feet. "Reid's alive?" I shout. My voice echoes. Blake jumps up too, grabs my arms to hold me still. I feel like I'm flying. I'm so filled with hope head-to-toe.

"Let me finish!"

"So, he's not alive?" now I'm overcome with sadness. Like I found out he was dead all over again. Just like before. Maybe this time it even hurts worse.

Again, he doesn't answer me.

_Spencer woke up, groggy and needed serious medical attention. I drove him to a hospital across town, lied about his name. They treated him there for about a week. He asked about you guys a lot. But I knew as long as Michael was alive, he couldn't be seen out in public._

_So that night, at the cabin. I went to kill my brother. He was my dad. And I hated my father so much. I thought I was getting back at my dad. But that night, I couldn't. Then you guys came and I thought you'd do it for me. But you couldn't kill him either._

"Reid's alive?" I say slowly, trying not to freak out. Is he here? Is he okay? Is he listening to this? I can't wait to tell him I'm marrying Morgan. I can't wait to hug him. "Just tell me, is he alive?"

He looks at me. "Yes."


	17. Dundundun

I'm baaaaaack...

Teehee. Go read my About Me on my profile to understand this a little better ;)

XO.


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